


A Legacy of Truth: Act I

by Arbryna



Series: A Legacy of Truth [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Blight ravaging Ferelden, Marian Hawke and her family are forced to flee their home in Lothering in search of a safe haven. With the help of a mysterious shapeshifter named Flemeth, they manage to outrun the darkspawn--but not without a cost. </p><p>Battered and exhausted--and short a member--the Hawkes arrive in Kirkwall to find that the family they thought awaited them is not quite what they were expecting. Without an estate or the security of a noble title, the confessors are all too vulnerable in a city ruled by templars. Marian's one hope is to raise enough money to join Bartrand Tethras's Deep Roads expedition--with the treasure she's sure to find, she should be able to buy some measure of safety for her family. </p><p>But will it be too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Codex Entry:**

**On Confessors, Part Two: Male Confessors**

I have not spoken of male confessors. Truthfully, precious little is known of them. When we were still slaves to the magisters, male children were killed at birth. The magisters claimed it was because the power became twisted in males, that their sex made corruption inevitable. A male confessor, they insisted, would grow to be a tyrant, using his power at whim and bending whole nations to his will.

Most confessors believed it, and continued the practice long after they were freed. It was considered a mercy to kill the boy as an infant, rather than let the mother establish any sort of bond with him. Allowing the boy to live would only make the inevitable that much more difficult.

Occasionally a confessor has become convinced that the magisters were wrong, or that they had lied; that it was simply harder to control who a male confessor bred with, and the slaughtering of male children was simply a means to control the confessor population. It is an idea that has sustained throughout the centuries, but few have dared attempt to defy the will of the sisterhood.

Of those that are known, all have ended in tragedy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Carver Hawke was running. It hurt to breathe. His legs were on fire, aching with every step, and his chest felt ready to burst, but still he ran. He’d been running for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to stand still. The darkspawn were behind him, always behind, always gaining; if he stopped, he would die. 

So he ran. Carver ran because his life—and the lives of his family—depended on it. His sword was heavy on his back, the scabbard banging against the back of his legs as he moved. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and stained black with the blood of the creatures he’d managed to kill along the way. He felt as though he would never be clean again, and still he ran.

He chanced a look over his shoulder, and skidded to a stop when he realized his family was no longer keeping up. His mother had fallen behind, and was hunched over with her hands on her knees, gasping for air. Bethany was at her side, rubbing her back, and Marian was halfway back to them. 

Carver sighed, rolling his eyes as he jogged back to meet them. “We need to keep moving,” he insisted impatiently. “I know you’re tired, Mother, but the darkspawn won’t wait for you to catch your breath.”

Marian flashed him an angry, incredulous look, keeping a protective hand on their mother’s shoulder. “Try to be a little more callous, Brother. We might think you’ve gone soft.” 

“No,” Mother panted, drawing herself up to her full height again and brushing Marian’s hand aside. “He’s right. I’ll be fine. Let’s just keep going.”

Bethany and Marian shared a concerned look, but before anyone could argue the point further, there were scattered growls from ahead of them. The path angled up, so they couldn’t see anything, but they could hear the scuffling of feet, the clanking of crude armor and weapons—the darkspawn weren’t only behind them.

“I’ll take point,” Carver said briskly, drawing his sword. He glanced to each of his sisters in turn. “Marian, back me up. Bethany, you keep them off of Mother.”

“Perhaps it would be best if Marian were to lead,” Mother protested, eyeing Carver warily. “She is older, after all.”

Carver narrowed his eyes, irritation creeping into his tone as he looked pointedly at the daggers strapped to Marian’s back. “She’s also not a front-line fighter. I was in the army. I’ve fought these things before.”

A troubled look flashed through Mother’s eyes, and any argument she might have made died on her tongue. He knew that look well; it was a look of fear. 

With a huff, Carver turned on his heel and charged ahead. They could follow or not—he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. Memories ran on a loop in his mind every step of the way.

_“He wants to join the army.”_

_As his sister’s voice carried from the kitchen, Carver sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d been paying attention when his father trained Marian in the arts of subterfuge. He’d never had much of a talent for it himself, but he’d learned enough to lurk undetected in the doorway as his mother and sister sat at the table discussing him._

_Mother sighed, a worn and weary sound. “I know. I wish Malcolm had never taught him how to fight.”_

_Bitterness rose in his chest. She’d always been opposed to it, reacting with a panic verging on terror whenever he or Father would bring it up._

_“Father knew what he was doing,” Marian said calmly. “If Carver didn’t have some kind of outlet, his anger would only consume him. He would become the very thing you’re afraid of.”_

_“It just seems like tempting fate. How is he supposed to resist becoming a monster when he is constantly surrounded by violence and blood?”_

_“What would you rather do? Lock him away and hope for the best?”_

_Mother sighed again, this time heavy with regret. “Sometimes I think it would have been easier if Malcolm hadn’t stopped me all those years ago.”_

_“Mother,” Marian chided gently._

_“Male confessors aren’t meant to be allowed to live, Marian.”_

_Carver’s blood ran cold as his mother’s words sunk in. It was one thing to go through life feeling like little more than an unwanted burden; it was something else entirely to hear that your own mother wished you dead._

_“You’ve only got vague, secondhand stories telling you that,” Marian pointed out. She had obviously known about all this before now. “You don’t know that he’ll be corrupted.”_

_“I also don’t know that he won’t,” Mother replied, her voice tight. “I might have unleashed a great evil on the world, and all because I couldn’t bear to cause Malcolm the pain of losing a son.”_

_“What other choice did you have?”_

_There was a brief silence, and then Mother said quietly, “There was another option discussed.”_

_It was clear from her tone what she was referring to. Marian tensed. “Mother, no.”_

_Mother at least had the decency to sound a little bit guilty, but she couldn’t let it go. “Tranquility would allow him to live while protecting him and everyone else from his power.”_

_“And destroy the essence of who he is!” Marian paused and exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. “You don’t even know that it would work. We’re not mages.”_

_“Your father said much the same thing,” Mother replied with a fond sigh of resignation. “There’s so much of him in you.”_

_“There’s an awful lot of you in here, too.”_

Anger swelled in his chest as he crested the hill, slashing wildly at the darkspawn that swarmed him as he came into view. He was vaguely aware of his family fighting around him, Marian dashing to and fro with her daggers while Bethany’s magic shot past him to catch a hurlock in the chest. 

That night had been the last time he’d seen his family before the Blight hit. He had sped back to his room, hastily packed the few things he would need for the journey—a change of clothes, his hunting knife, his greatsword—and slipped out the door of their small cottage in Lothering. He’d run then, too, and hadn’t stopped until he’d reached Ostagar. There, at least, they treated him like any other soldier. They didn’t look at him as though any minute he would transform into some hideous beast and turn on them. 

Of course, he had been careful to hide his power. It was always there, itching at the underside of his skin, clamoring to get out, but he’d kept it firmly under control. Truthfully, he hadn’t used his power since that ill-fated night with a village girl behind Barlin’s shed in Lothering. He’d called her Peaches, because her cheeks were as soft and rounded as the fruit, and he’d thought he was in love. How was he to know what would happen? His parents had never told him _why_ he couldn’t take a lover, only that he never could. It had been almost as though they were afraid to give him too much information about himself, his powers. 

Sometimes he thought back to that night, to Peaches, and how it felt to hold her in his arms, to feel his power burrowing beneath her skin and taking hold in her mind. When he found himself longing to feel that again, he wondered if maybe the confessors of generations past were right, if his mother was right; maybe he _was_ a monster.

Carver scowled as he looked around to see the last of the darkspawn fall to his sister’s blades. He recognized the feral satisfaction on her face. It was a feeling he knew well: the rush of victory, the swell of pride at being better, stronger, faster than the enemy. Mother wasn’t afraid of Marian—why was she so afraid of him?

A small hand curved around his bicep, and he looked down to see Bethany giving him a sympathetic smile. She was his constant; he and his twin had been inseparable from birth, despite Mother’s constant attempts to drive a wedge between them. After the conversation he’d witnessed, Carver could only assume his mother was trying to keep Bethany from getting close to him, to spare her the pain of losing him when he finally had to be put down.

If it weren’t for Bethany, Carver didn’t know if he’d have even come back to Lothering after the disaster that was Ostagar. He could have stayed with the remnants of the army, seeking refuge alongside his comrades, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Bethany to face the darkspawn without him. 

He offered his twin a tight smile, affection and understanding passing unspoken between them. Then Bethany frowned, turning toward their mother.

“Where are we going to go?”

“Away from those tainted bastards,” Carver replied, his scowl returning. “Where else?” 

Bethany squeezed his arm, chiding him silently with her eyes. “We can’t just keep running forever.”

“Why not?” Marian interjected with a smirk. “We’ve turned it into something of an art form, really.”

“We’ll go to Kirkwall,” Mother said firmly. All three siblings turned shocked gazes her way.

“Mother, are you sure?” Marian asked warily.

“There are a lot of templars in Kirkwall,” Bethany added. 

“We still have family there, and an estate,” Mother replied, a smile softening her features as she looked at her daughters. “Our name will protect us. Your grandmother can teach you both about your powers, far better than I ever could.”

It hurt. The ache was familiar, but no less sharp for all the years he’d lived with it. He would never be his mother’s son, no matter how hard he tried. He pulled away from Bethany, turning away from them so they wouldn’t see the pain in his eyes. “We should get moving,” he said gruffly. “There are a lot of darkspawn between here and Kirkwall.” 

As if on cue, the sounds of battle rang out from around the bend ahead. The ring of steel on steel suggested that they weren’t the only ones fighting the darkspawn. Carver charged ahead, not bothering to wait for argument. When he rounded the bend, he saw a group of hurlocks crowding around a formidable red-haired warrior. She was holding them off expertly, keeping them away from the prone figure behind her. 

It was the man that gave everyone pause. Even hunched against the rock as he was, they could all clearly see the flaming sword emblazoned on the front of his armor: a templar.

Carver felt a momentary pang of guilt for the selfish thought that flashed through his mind, but when he glanced at his sisters and mother, he could see that they were all thinking the same thing: this templar could mean the death of them all—it would be smarter to let the darkspawn kill him. 

The warrior woman turned, and Carver was struck by how familiar she was. Then he remembered; she had been at Ostagar, on the front lines along with him. They’d been in different companies but her imposing figure, coupled with her distinctive bright red hair, made her impossible to forget. She’d fought fiercely then, just as she fought fiercely now, though there was a desperate passion in the swing of her sword that suggested this was a far more personal battle. 

He couldn’t leave a comrade to die. The Fereldan soldiers he’d fought beside had made him feel far more welcome than his family ever had, and he’d sooner die than stand by and watch as one of them was torn apart by darkspawn. 

“Try not to use any magic,” he muttered to Bethany, not waiting for a response before he charged into the fray. Marian charged after him, and together they managed to put a sizable dent in the darkspawn’s numbers. 

It wasn’t enough, though; Carver glanced up in horror as a pair of hurlocks that had gotten past them ambled toward Bethany and Mother. Bethany held up her staff, preparing to fight them off with blunt force, but two on one was poor odds. Before Carver could rush over to help, a hurlock’s blade arced toward his face. He deflected it just in time, but quickly found himself facing off against a handful of enemies, unable to break away. 

A loud whoosh echoed down the path, followed by the sizzling of foul flesh and the darkspawn’s cries of agony as they were consumed by the fire. Carver glanced back, comforted by the sight of his sister standing unharmed in front of their mother, even if she had risked exposure of her magic. 

Before long, they were standing victorious amidst a sea of darkspawn bodies. Bethany and Mother rushed to join them as Carver and Marian wiped their blades clean on the tattered rags the darkspawn wore. 

“Apostate, keep your distance!” The templar was struggling to his feet, aided by his companion. His eyes were fixed on Bethany. 

Carver stepped in front of Bethany, shielding her from the templar’s gaze. “Perhaps it’s you who should keep your distance,” he sneered. “You’re injured, and outnumbered.” 

Hesitation flashed through steel-grey eyes, but the templar held firm. “That woman is an apostate,” he insisted, gesturing to Bethany. “The Order dictates—”

“Shove your Order!” Carver spat back. His hands curled into fists, one gripping hard to his sword hilt.

“While my brother may be overly exuberant,” Marian said smoothly, stepping up beside Carver and laying a hand on his arm, “he does have a point. We do appear to have the advantage.” She arched an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a wry smile. Her other hand curled tightly around her dagger, white knuckles betraying her casual facade; she was ready to fight him, if he pressed the issue.

“Wesley,” the red-haired warrior said, slipping her arm around the templar as he wavered on his feet. Her voice and expression were surprisingly tender, given the ferocity of her fighting just moments before. “They saved us. The Maker understands.” 

The templar—Wesley, Carver assumed—opened his mouth to protest, but a groan escaped instead, and he briefly sagged against his companion. “Of course,” he said, reluctantly backing off. His eyes were still fixed on Bethany, but Carver could tell that the man was being sincere. He would not raise a weapon against them for as long as they needed one another.

“I am Aveline Vallen,” the warrior woman said, meeting Marian’s gaze evenly. Any hint of tenderness had left her voice; she was all business now. “This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we’re safe from the horde.”

Marian nodded, steel edging her smile as she fixed her attention on the templar. “So long as you understand that we stand with our sister.” 

“Understood,” Wesley said, eyeing Bethany warily. 

“For now, it will be safer to move together,” Aveline said crisply. “The north is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde.”

“Great,” Carver huffed. “We’re trapped. The Wilds are to the south. We’d be lucky to survive, let alone find a ship to take us to Kirkwall.”

“Sounds like certain death either way,” Marian said dryly, setting off down the southern path. “At least south will take longer.” 

Carver narrowed his eyes, glaring holes into Marian’s back as he grudgingly followed.

***

Wesley refused to let Bethany even attempt to heal the jagged gash that had torn through the back of his armor, so he hobbled along behind them with Mother’s help. Aveline, however, proved a valuable addition to their team, easily taking out as many or more darkspawn than Carver or his sisters. Eventually they reached a place where the path widened, rock walls surrounding them everywhere but where an incline led up to a plateau.

After disposing of the hurlocks and darkspawn emissary they encountered there, Marian wandered toward the edge of the area, investigating a chest someone had probably dropped in their haste to outrun the horde. The poor sods were probably dead now, anyway, so Carver didn’t bother to complain about her penchant for looting.

“You were at Ostagar, weren’t you?” Aveline said, stepping up beside him after checking on Wesley. “Third company, under Captain Varel.”

Carver scowled. “For all the good it did. We were still defeated.”

“You fought well,” Aveline said, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “You should be proud of that. It’s certainly not your fault we were betrayed.”

Stunned, Carver turned to Aveline. Her green eyes held not a trace of mockery—only respect and sincerity. He didn’t know how to respond; he’d so rarely encountered someone who treated him with anything other than fear or disdain. 

He was spared the trial of thinking of a response; the familiar pounding of feet and clanking of armor warned of yet another wave of darkspawn approaching from the plateau.

“We should get to the top of the path,” he said, looking back at Aveline. “If they swarm us down here we’ll be overrun.” 

Aveline nodded, gripping her sword as she charged up the path. Carver followed behind, and soon they found themselves in chaos.

Hurlocks and emissaries flooded the plateau, charging toward them with a single-minded purpose. Carver and Aveline met them head on, hacking away with their swords. Marian darted through the fray with poise and grace, slashing at a throat or stomach then dancing away to her next target. Bethany stood back with Mother and Wesley, hurling spells from a distance. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Carver saw a hurlock break away from the horde, charging toward Bethany while she was focused on taking out an emissary that had set its sights on Marian. She realized it too late, and her staff was knocked from her hands by a wickedly curved blade. There was only one thing left for her to do: she pushed away his sword arm with one hand as her other shot out to clasp the creature’s throat. 

The hurlock reeled back as her power slammed into it. The battlefield shook with the force of her magic—or so Carver initially thought. The pounding repeated, and an ogre appeared at the top of the path, charging toward Bethany. It was huge, towering above them all; large, twisted horns grew out of the top of its head, and teeth the size of Carver’s head were bared as it roared. Its skin was a sickly shade of beige, with splotches of violet at the shoulders that looked like some sort of unnatural bloodstains. The hurlock she’d confessed raced to meet it, but before it could fight back, it was scooped up into a giant fist and tossed against the cliff jutting up from one side of the plateau. Its body crumpled to the ground in a heap, black blood seeping into the dirt.

Bethany had collapsed, drained from the use of her power; she knelt with one hand on the ground, bracing herself as she struggled to regain her strength. She didn’t see the ogre charging toward her. 

There was no time to think. Bethany was in danger, vulnerable; she needed help. Carver barreled across the plateau, gripping his sword tightly as he placed himself between his sister and the monstrous creature. The ogre snarled and swiped at him, and Carver slashed at the meaty hand, deflecting it away from his body. The ogre howled in pain. Hot blood sprayed from the wound in its hand, splashing Carver in the face and temporarily blinding him. One of his hands left the hilt of his sword, wiping at his eyes, but before he could regain his senses, he was snatched up into the air. 

The ogre’s fingers clamped down on his ribs, squeezing the breath out of him, and his sword clattered uselessly to the ground. He only had one weapon left to him: the power he’d kept locked away for years. It was too late for him; he felt some of his ribs snap as the ogre’s grip tightened, and a sharp pain in his chest that meant one of them had probably punctured a lung. He knew he was beyond a healer’s magic. His only thought as he reached for the ogre’s large finger was that if he could defeat this monster, Bethany would be safe. All he needed was the barest hint of skin contact.

It was too late. The ogre’s grip tightened, and Carver’s hand fell away before it met its destination. He knew a brief, intense moment of agony, and then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Bethany’s guttural scream rang across the battlefield. Marian’s head spun around as she yanked her daggers free of the emissary she had just killed. What she saw made her blood run cold. 

The ogre was snarling fiercely. In its monstrous fist, it clutched the broken body of her brother. To the left of the creature, at the edge of the plateau, Bethany had risen to her feet, shaking as screams of agony and rage tore from her throat, and Marian could tell even from this distance that her eyes had gone black. Their mother was scrambling to her feet, her gaze firmly fixed on her youngest daughter. 

She didn’t make it in time. Bethany threw her head back and raised her arms stiffly in front of her, hands tensed and outstretched toward the oncoming onslaught of darkspawn. Mother fell back, dragging Wesley out of sight down the path.

Marian’s eyes widened. She knew what was happening; her mother had told her and Bethany about it when they were younger. The Con Dar—the Blood Rage. She jerked her head around to seek out Aveline—she and Mother would be safe from Bethany’s powers, but the warrior wouldn’t.

“Aveline, get down!” Marian shouted, raising her daggers to meet the next wave of darkspawn. Aveline was finishing off the last of a cluster of hurlocks; in the span of just a few seconds, she looked to Marian, then over to Bethany, then dove behind a large rock. 

Bethany’s screams grew louder, and a wave of magic pulsed over the battlefield. All at once, the darkspawn froze in place, their weapons lowered. Carver’s body fell from the ogre’s fist, limp and unmoving. An eerie calm fell over everything as the creatures looked to their new mistress for guidance. 

The sound of growling and scraping indicated that more were coming. Bethany curled one hand into a gnarled fist, extending one finger to point toward the sound.

“Kill them all!” Bethany ordered in a voice so filled with rage it hardly sounded human. As one, the confessed darkspawn turned, charging toward their former comrades with weapons raised. The ogre waded among them, snatching hurlocks in its fist and hurling their corpses at yet more enemies. 

After just a few moments, however, Bethany’s new army began to fall, writhing in agony as her power coursed through their blood. Darkspawn, Mother had taught, could not withstand the power of confession. While they would serve as faithfully and devotedly as any other confessed, it was only a matter of moments before the taint would begin to fight back, pure hatred against pure love. Nothing alive was built to contain two such opposing forces. 

The dying cries of the confessed darkspawn mingled with the snarls and roars of the handful still approaching. Marian rushed forward to meet them, slashing furiously with her daggers, and in moments the only darkspawn on the field were the bodies at her feet. Aveline emerged from her hiding place, rushing over to check on Wesley.

“Get away from me!” Bethany cried as Mother tried to put an arm around her. Her rage had cooled, but her face was twisted with grief and accusation. “Are you happy, Mother? You got what you wanted.” 

“I never wanted it to happen like this.” Mother fell to her knees beside Bethany, on the verge of tears herself.

“But you don’t deny you wanted him dead,” Bethany shot back. Her shoulders trembled with the weight of her grief.

Marian took a wavering breath, moving to kneel at her sister’s other side. “Beth, you know why,” she said softly, trying to sound sure of herself. “He would have become a monster.”

“He wasn’t a monster!” Bethany sobbed, angrily meeting Marian’s gaze. “He was my brother—and yours, too. Not that you’d ever guess, from how you treated him.” Tears fell from her eyes, streaking through the black blood that still marred Carver’s too-pale skin. Bethany’s face and tone softened as she looked down at him, wiping the tears and blood away with a shaky hand. “He died trying to save me.”

“And he succeeded.” Marian’s heart ached to see her sister in such pain. She hadn’t really gotten along with Carver, but she had never quite believed her mother’s cautionary tales about male confessors past. She certainly hadn’t wished him dead—but the time for grieving would come later. They weren’t safe yet. “Now you have to keep fighting. Don’t make his sacrifice meaningless.”

Bethany tensed, readying another argument, but she seemed to think better of it. Reluctantly, she nodded, wiping at her cheeks and pressing a kiss onto Carver’s forehead. Marian offered her a hand up, and they rose together to face the next challenge.

“Flames!” Aveline cursed, emerging from her hiding place as she raised her sword and shield once more. “There’s more of them.” 

Marian’s blood ran cold as she watched them approach, calculating odds in her head. It was the three of them against what had to be scores of darkspawn. While Bethany raised her staff, Marian and Aveline advanced, blades at the ready, but the darkspawn’s numbers were too great. They were gradually being driven back the way they had come. Even with Bethany’s magic, they couldn’t hope to take on that many. It looked like the end of the line.

Suddenly, a roar louder than any the darkspawn had emitted shook the battlefield. Marian glanced up toward the sound to see an improbable sight: a dragon was perched at the edge of the cliff above them, its wings outstretched as it prepared to fly.

Then, with a speed that seemed impossible for such a large creature, the dragon pushed off of the cliff, gliding low to the ground to spray the darkspawn horde with searing flame. It snatched up a hurlock in each massive claw, sweeping up into the sky and dropping them to be crushed against the ground below. Circling back, the dragon landed in the center of the plateau, loosing another jet of flame as its tail swept aside still more darkspawn. 

Before long, the only enemy still moving was the one trapped under one of the dragon’s claws. As it struggled to free itself, the dragon pressed down, crushing the life from it effortlessly. Then a golden light radiated from the dragon, blinding Marian and her companions. When the light faded, the dragon was gone; in its place was a lean, armored woman with a shock of white hair done up in an elaborate style that resembled horns. Her long cloak fluttered behind her as she dragged the hurlock’s limp body behind her through the flames. Its lifeless wrist fell from her grasp as she sauntered up to them.

“Well, well,” the woman said, eyeing Bethany. “It’s rare that I get visitors to the Wilds, but rarer still is a visitor with such interesting talents.” 

“Stay back,” Marian warned shakily, stepping between them and raising her hand up to stop the woman’s advance. “You don’t know what I can do.” 

The woman chuckled. “Oh, there’s more than one of you, then?” She turned her focus to Marian, her eyes sharp and almost hungry. “I assure you, I know very well what you are capable of.”

Marian tensed. “How—”

“I know many things,” the woman replied. “Few secrets in this world remain hidden from me. However, I must confess I thought your line eradicated long ago.” 

“Well, we weren’t,” Marian said defiantly. Her hand trembled as she kept it raised toward the woman’s throat. “If you know what I am, you should also know that if you take one more step toward me or my family, I won’t hesitate to make you my slave.” 

This time the woman laughed heartily, tilting her head back as her shoulders shook. “Such defiance!” Cold amusement glittered in yellow eyes as she met Marian’s gaze again. “Child, if I wished you harm, I would not need to take a step. You would be dead in the span of a heartbeat.”

She wasn’t lying. A shiver raced down Marian’s spine, and she lowered her hand, still eyeing the woman warily. “What do you want, then?”

The woman turned her head, surveying the plateau littered with the bodies of countless darkspawn. “I spotted a most curious sight,” she said, once again setting Bethany in her sights. “A host of darkspawn, stopped in their tracks by one tiny little mage. A host that then turned on its fellows, defying their very nature.” The woman shrugged. “I simply desired a closer look. Now my curiosity is sated. You should know, however, that if you wish to escape the darkspawn, you are heading in the wrong direction.”

“Wait!” Marian called out as the woman began to walk away. The woman turned, eyebrow arched expectantly. Marian glanced at her companions, then back to meet those cold yellow eyes. “We need to get to Kirkwall, in the Free Marches. You could help us.”

“Could I?” the woman asked. “And why would I do that?”

Marian fumbled, then shrugged. “Out of the kindness of your dragon-sized heart?” she asked with a wry, hopeful smile.

“Oh, you I like,” the woman said with a laugh. “Hurtled into the chaos you fight—and the world will shake before you.” With a contemplative look, she turned away again, looking up at the sky. “Is it fate or chance?” she muttered to herself, barely loud enough for Marian to hear. “I can never decide.”

“I’ll go with whichever gets us safely away from the darkspawn,” Marian joked nervously.

When she turned back, there was something new in the woman’s eyes—a kind of shrewd appraisal. “It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet.”

“Not that I’m declining,” Marian said warily, “but that was awfully easy.” 

“Oh, you are clever,” the woman replied. “Few things in life are easy—for your kind in particular, I imagine.” 

“Marian,” Mother said worriedly. “Should we trust this woman? We don’t even know what she is.” 

“I know what she is,” Aveline said, helping Wesley stumble back up onto the plateau. There was a cold certainty in her voice. “The Witch of the Wilds.”

The witch smirked. “Some call me that. Also Flemeth, Asha’bellanar, ‘an old hag who talks too much.’”

“That’s quite the collection of nicknames,” Marian said. “What should we call you?”

“Flemeth will suffice,” the witch replied. “I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this, for a ‘witch of the wilds’?”

The offer was sincere, even if there was much that Flemeth wasn’t saying. Marian shrugged. “I haven’t got much choice, have I?”

“Smart girl,” Flemeth said. She pulled an amulet out of a pouch at her hip. “There is a clan of Dalish elves near the city of Kirkwall. Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari. Do as she asks with it and any debt between us is paid in full.” 

The amulet was heavy in Marian’s hand, and warm. The gem at its center seemed to shift and change, glowing faintly red. Marian looked up, brow furrowed. “Why can’t you take it there yourself? I imagine you’d get it there much quicker than I could—with your wings, and all.”

A wry smile curved Flemeth’s lips, and her eyes took on a distant look. “I have…an appointment to keep,” she said simply. “Before I take you anywhere, however, there is…another matter.” Flemeth’s gaze fell on Wesley, who was resting against some rocks. 

“No!” Aveline said, rising to her feet at his side and glaring hard at the witch. “Leave him alone!”

“What has been done to your man is already in his blood,” Flemeth replied calmly.

“She’s right, Aveline,” Wesley forced out. He was getting worse; the veins in his neck were turning black, pulsing with the poison in his blood. “I can feel the corruption inside me.”

He’d been tainted. Marian’s heart ached; templar or not, she wouldn’t wish such a terrible fate on anyone. “There must be something we can do.”

“The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden,” Flemeth said.

Marian’s hopes sank. “And they all died at Ostagar.”

“Not all,” Flemeth corrected. “But the last are now beyond your reach.”

The thought crept into Marian’s mind as she watched Aveline kneel once again at Wesley’s side. There was nothing they could do to save him, but perhaps she could make it easier. She moved to his other side, keeping her expression calm and neutral. He turned to her, and she could see the recognition and fear in his eyes.

“You know what I am,” Marian said calmly. He nodded weakly, wincing as pain shot through him. “I can take the pain away, Wesley.”

“Marian!” Mother protested. 

“They’ve already seen it, Mother,” Marian said, turning to meet her mother’s worried gaze. “They know.” She turned her attention back to Wesley. He was stubbornly trying to hold out, and she could see the refusal on his lips. Then another wave of pain hit him, and he curled in on himself as it racked his body. 

“Please,” he croaked when he could once again lift his head. Fear filled his eyes, but his pleading was sincere.

Marian nodded and turned to Aveline. “You should have the chance to say goodbye.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Aveline demanded. The hostility in her tone might have fooled anyone else, but not Marian; Aveline was terrified, and grieving.

“I’m going to help him,” Marian replied with a sad smile. “The only way I can.”

She backed away as Aveline turned toward Wesley, green eyes shining with unshed tears. “You can’t leave me,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let you.”

A weak smile pulled at his mouth. “You don’t have a choice, love.” He tried to raise his hand to Aveline’s cheek, but could only make it halfway. Aveline snatched it out of the air, pressing it to her face. “You should go. I don’t want you to have to see this.”

“Tough,” Aveline replied gruffly. “‘Til death do us part. You’re stuck with me right up to the end.” 

Wesley just smiled, as if he expected nothing less. He tugged his hand away from Aveline’s cheek and inhaled a deep, shaky breath as he turned to Marian. “I’m ready.”

Marian nodded, gently bringing her hand to Wesley’s throat. She looked over to meet Aveline’s wide-eyed gaze. “You’ll want to move back. Make sure you’re not touching him.”

Bewildered, Aveline nonetheless complied, fists clenched tightly at her sides.

Taking a deep breath, Marian locked her eyes onto Wesley’s and loosened her restraint. Her power surged forth, filling her up until she could no longer contain it; then it overflowed, slamming into Wesley. His eyes went black momentarily, and when they cleared, they shone with single-minded devotion.

“Command me, Mistress.”

“Wesley,” Marian began gently when she had recovered. She shifted her hand to cup his cheek. “I want you to listen to me very closely.” He nodded, looking up at her eagerly. “You’re going to die.”

“Now you wait—” Aveline’s choked voice fell silent as Mother put a hand on her shoulder. Marian kept her focus on the dying man before her. 

“I’m sorry,” Wesley said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I wish I had more time to serve you.” 

“Don’t worry about that now,” Marian said, trying her best to smile. “Just listen. There’s only one thing I want you to do for me.” Her throat threatened to close up; she’d never done this before, and she could only hope it worked. “I want you to close your eyes for me. Close your eyes and let go. Die for me, Wesley.”

A grateful smile dawned on Wesley’s face as he closed his eyes. Marian kept her hand pressed to his cheek until she felt him go limp, the life draining out of him. A tear rolled down her cheek as she pulled away. Bethany helped her to her feet, keeping an arm around her for support. Marian was a stronger confessor than Bethany, but it still exhausted her to use her power. 

Aveline was speechless, a million different emotions flitting through her eyes. She looked lost, angry, confused. Mother squeezed her shoulder, giving what comfort she could. 

“You showed him mercy.” Flemeth said, sounding both surprised and impressed. “He would not have done the same for you.”

Marian sniffed, wiping at the tears on her face. “I couldn’t just let him suffer. Not while I could do something to help.”

Flemeth nodded her understanding, if not her agreement. “It is a rare person who would do such a selfless thing. Power and compassion so seldom exist together in such abundance.” 

“My power doesn’t dictate who I am,” Marian said. A numbness was starting to take hold in her, a defense against all that had happened. “Only I can do that.” 

“Well, since compassion seems to be in the air,” Flemeth said, “I will give you half a candlemark to tend to your dead. After that, we must be on our way.” She turned away, walking toward the edge of the plateau. “After all,” she said distantly, “I still have that appointment to keep.”


	4. Chapter 4

Orange flames danced in front of Aveline’s eyes, flickering across the bare rocks that walled the small hollow where they’d set up camp. Flemeth had grudgingly acknowledged their need to sleep, and left them with an assurance that they would be safe for the night, and that she’d return for them at first light. Embers popped, spraying bright sparks up into the night air. The crackling fire did little to ward off the chill, but Aveline couldn’t feel the cold.

She couldn’t feel much of anything. Though the flames before her consumed only fallen branches and the few dry logs they’d collected, all Aveline could see was Wesley’s body, still and lifeless as fire licked at his flesh and charred his silverite armor. They hadn’t had the time or materials to fabricate a shroud; it was a wonder the witch had even allowed them the time to build a pyre.

Aveline hadn’t let herself look away—Wesley deserved better than that. She’d forced herself to watch as her husband’s face turned black, his features crumbling into ash. They had still been burning, Wesley and the boy—Carver, his name was—when the witch declared that it was time to leave. 

Wesley’s shield rested heavily against her leg as she sat watching the fire from a fallen log. She’d left her own standard-issue Fereldan shield behind, opting to keep at least this one memory of her husband with her. It was rough and solid beneath her fingertips, keeping her at least partially tethered to reality. 

Blunt fingernails dug into the wood as Aveline replayed the day’s events over in her head for the thousandth time. There had to have been some way she could have prevented it. If only she’d moved faster, or paid more attention to where he was and what he was facing; she should have been able to protect him. 

These thoughts were poison, of course; she had offered the same sentiment to countless new recruits. There was no room in battle for second-guessing. You made a choice and you committed to it, and in the end all that mattered was whether you’d given your best effort. It never did anyone any good to dwell on what could have been.

That didn’t change the fact that Wesley was gone. She had woken this morning at his side, his grey eyes warm and affectionate as he watched her yawn and stretch and dig in to the breakfast he’d hastily prepared over the remnants of their small campfire. He’d always been the better cook. Now she’d never again see those eyes sparkle almost blue as he leaned in to kiss her; she’d never hear him laugh, or feel his body firm and solid against her own.

For a woman who prided herself on her strength, she felt intolerably weak. There was a hollow ache in her chest, throbbing dully against the inside of her ribs. Something vital had been ripped from her, and she didn’t know how long it would take to begin to heal. 

Or even if she’d have the chance. She’d escaped the darkspawn, but she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t gotten herself into an even more perilous situation—even aside from the fact that she was allowing herself to be led to so-called safety by a deadly witch from legend. The women she traveled with seemed decent enough, but Aveline couldn’t forget the look of inhuman rage on the youngest one’s face when she’d somehow commanded the darkspawn to attack their own—or the look of frantic devotion on Wesley’s face that had changed him from her husband into someone she scarcely knew in the last moments of his life. 

She’d never heard of a magic so powerful. Wesley had seemed to recognize it, though, and it made her wonder how much more he’d known, how many things she’d never had the chance to ask him. Now she never would. 

“It gets easier.” 

Aveline tensed. Her eyes remained fixed on the flames as the log shifted beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Leandra, the mother of the small family she traveled with, looking at her with an expression of deep sympathy. Her jaw tightened as the woman rested a tentative hand on her arm. 

“I lost my husband just three years ago,” Leandra continued gently. “A long illness that took his life by degrees, until finally there was nothing left of him but pain. You wouldn’t have wanted that for your Wesley.”

Rage flared in Aveline’s chest. “How long?” she asked through her teeth, her arm stiffening under the unwelcome touch.

Leandra faltered, frowned. “Well, it took the better part of a year—”

“No,” Aveline interrupted, her voice harsh with grief and anger. “How long were you married to him before you had to let him go? Twenty years? More?” She glanced across the fire, where Leandra’s daughters were murmuring quietly to one another. “I had eight months,” she choked out, wrenching her arm away. “Don’t presume to tell me what I would have wanted.” 

A tense silence fell over them. Leandra shifted her own gaze to the fire, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I didn’t mean to make light of your loss.” 

Aveline shut her eyes, forcing back the moisture that had gathered there. Her rage bled away as quickly as it had come, settling in her stomach as cold, empty grief. It wasn’t Leandra who had taken Wesley from her. “It’s all right,” she sighed. After a long moment, she asked softly, “Does it really get easier?”

“Yes,” Leandra answered, quietly confident and reassuring. “It never stops hurting, and he’ll never be completely out of your thoughts, or your heart, but you do learn to live with the loss.”

When Aveline chanced a look over at the older woman, Leandra was watching her daughters with no small amount of grief of her own. Aveline wanted to kick herself. “You must think me insufferably selfish,” she said with a humorless chuckle. “I’m not the only one who lost someone today.”

Leandra’s brow tightened, the corners of her mouth pressing downward. It was an expression far more complicated than just the raw grief of losing a child. Aveline remembered distantly overhearing Bethany’s angry, tear-filled accusations—that Leandra had wanted her son to die. She’d dismissed it then, writing it off as a heat-of-the-moment overreaction, but now she wondered how close to the truth it might have been. 

“I’ll miss him,” Leandra admitted quietly, her voice wavering. “Bethany will never believe me, but I do grieve for his loss. He was a good man.” She sighed, guilt shading her tone. “I just don’t know if he would have stayed that way. A part of me is glad I won’t ever have to find out.” 

There it was. Aveline had never heard a mother speak of a dead child in such a way. It was clear that Leandra’s words were true—that she did grieve for the death of her son—but just as clear was the fact that she thought he was better off that way. It had to have something to do with the mysterious power they all seemed to possess. 

“If we’re going to be traveling together,” Aveline started, “I think I deserve some kind of explanation.” Leandra’s eyes widened, and she shot a wary glance toward her daughters. It was a panicked, fearful sort of expression that said volumes about the family’s past—obviously they’d spent a good deal of time running, and not just because of the youngest girl and her magic. “My husband was the templar, not me,” she added gently, trying to sound reassuring. She ignored the small stab of pain at referring to Wesley in the past tense.

The weak assurance seemed to do something, at least; Leandra deliberated for a long moment before letting out a troubled breath. “I’m afraid it’s a long story,” she began. “And incomplete. What we know of our past and our powers is cobbled together from secondhand stories and our limited experience.”

“I don’t need a detailed history,” Aveline replied. “I just want to know what I’m dealing with.” 

Flames. That was rather more blunt than it needed to be. Leandra didn’t flinch away from it, however, although an old pain registered in her eyes; she was clearly used to such reactions. It was a disturbing thought—just how dangerous _were_ these women, that they expected others to fear them so?

“We are known as confessors,” Leandra said quietly, her gaze shifting to fix firmly on her daughters. “We were created by Imperial magisters centuries ago.”

“Created,” Aveline repeated. “So you’re not…”

“Oh, we are as human as you,” Leandra said with a weary smile, anticipating the question. “With the exception, of course, of our abilities—which you’ve witnessed for yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean I understood what I was seeing,” Aveline countered. “What is this power, exactly?” 

“Put simply, we have the ability to put another completely under our control with a single touch.” Leandra looked down at her hands, her brow tightening. “The process is irreversible.”

Such a simple statement, yet it chilled Aveline’s blood in her veins. No wonder Wesley had feared them; they were more dangerous than any mage. 

“Your daughter, Bethany, she didn’t touch those darkspawn, yet they all obeyed her without question.” 

“That was…a rare occurrence.” Leandra glanced back at her daughters; Marian had gotten Bethany to lie down, and was stroking her hair as they continued to speak quietly. The younger woman’s cheeks hadn’t been free of tears since she’d seen her brother fall. “It’s known as the Con Dar—‘blood rage’ in Ancient Tevene. It’s a potent force—the primal embodiment of vengeance. To enter the Con Dar requires pain; the sort of visceral pain that only comes from losing someone you love.” Her chin trembled as her voice broke; a tear slid down her cheek. “I never wanted that kind of pain for my daughters.”

Aveline hesitated. “And your son?” 

Leandra inhaled a shaky breath. “Our power…acts differently in males,” she explained, failing in her attempt to sound detached. “It is more volatile, less predictable. No male confessor has ever lived without leaving pain and destruction in his wake.”

“I see.” The implication was clear: Leandra thought her son a mistake. Aveline couldn’t begin to understand, let alone come up with a response. Another question surfaced in her mind, one she’d been trying to avoid; one she was sure she didn’t want the answer to. “Wesley, he…he seemed happy. The way he looked at Marian, before the end…it was almost as if—”

“As if he loved her?” Leandra finished. There was a silent apology in her eyes as she continued. “He did. More than anything—more than his own life. Even more than you.”

The words hit Aveline like a warhammer to her chest. “That’s how it works, then?” she said numbly. “How you take control of people—you make them fall in love with you?” 

“Yes.” The answer was simple, to the point. Leandra didn’t try to reassure her, which Aveline found she was grateful for. To know that her husband had died loving someone else…she didn’t think there were any words that _could_ lessen that pain.

“You should get some sleep,” Aveline said gruffly, her nails biting into the wood of Wesley’s shield as she gripped it tighter. “I’ll keep watch.” 

Leandra opened her mouth, perhaps to argue that Flemeth had assured their safety, but she seemed to think better of it. She offered an understanding smile as she rose to go join her daughters.

Aveline just stared into the flames, as grief clawed its way up her throat once more. There would be no sleep for her tonight.

***

Much to Aveline’s surprise, it did get easier to cope with Wesley’s death as their journey wore on. At the very least, she could think of him without wanting to fall apart. Not that she’d ever give in—she’d yet to shed a single tear, something Wesley would have chided her for. He’d always tried to convince her that her strength wouldn’t be undermined by allowing herself to show a bit of feeling. 

To cry, however, would mean that she accepted the fact of his death. She knew he was gone, of course—she didn’t entertain any fanciful hopes that he would return to her—but she wasn’t quite ready to let him go just yet. 

It helped that she spent most of her time battling darkspawn, or walking until her legs felt like jelly. Flemeth had agreed to get them safely past the horde, after all—she hadn’t said it would be easy. 

Now, a week after they’d set out, they were camped in a small clearing at the southeastern edge of the Brecilian Passage. They would reach Gwaren tomorrow, if the witch could be believed. Flemeth had taken her leave of them, saying that her end of the bargain had been fulfilled; they’d left the last of the horde behind them when they’d entered the passage. 

Aveline was trying not to think of what came next. She’d managed to develop something of a rapport with Leandra and Bethany; so long as she avoided thinking about what they were, they got along nicely, working together to build fires—Bethany was particularly useful in that regard—and prepare meals. Aveline, of course, took up the job of hunting for game; she was the first to insist that no one wanted to eat her cooking. 

Marian, though, was another story. She’d kept her distance from Aveline, almost more wary of interaction than Aveline herself. She wasn’t cold, by any means, and her love for her family was starkly apparent in the manner with which she took care of them. When it came to Aveline, however, she seemed to assume that her company wouldn’t be welcome. Whenever Aveline would meet her eyes, even for a brief moment, guilt would shade Marian’s expression, and she would look away. 

At first, Aveline had been grateful for it. She didn’t know how to begin trying to get to know the woman who had killed her husband, even if it had been out of mercy. It had been all too easy to let the distance stay, to avoid the issue entirely. At least, it had been easy until Aveline realized that avoiding was exactly what she had been doing. She’d never been one to run away from her problems; she faced them head-on, and never let them get the better of her. 

In any case, avoidance was no longer an option. The journey to Kirkwall would take weeks, and they’d be in close quarters, without any darkspawn to distract them. If Aveline was going to face this problem, the sooner she did it the better. 

The elder Hawke sister was sitting away from the fire, resting back against the thick trunk of an oak. A smile played at her lips as she watched her sister and mother making dinner together. Aveline had noticed the two women getting along better; whatever tension was between mother and daughter still remained, but the love that bound them together as family was stronger. It seemed to be enough for Marian; she was content to sit back and watch, no longer needed to mediate between the two of them. 

Aveline approached slowly, but stealth had never been a strong point of hers; a branch snapped under her boot, and Marian tensed. Her eyes flickered up to meet Aveline’s, filling with that familiar guilt before she tore them away to look at the ground. Aveline lowered herself to sit next to Marian, searching for words. 

Marian beat her to it. “I haven’t told you how sorry I am,” she began, her voice soft. Her gaze drifted to her hands, fingers twisting in front of her. “If there had been some other way to ease his pain, I would have done it in a heartbeat.” 

“It’s a hard thing to get past,” Aveline admitted after a pause. Her throat tightened at the memory, but she forced through it. “He swore to love me until death parted us, but his last thoughts were of you.”

“You’re wrong,” Marian replied gently. Aveline looked up; Marian’s eyes still held that guilt, but her lips were turned up in the slightest hint of a reassuring smile. “Or at least, you’re looking at it the wrong way. Wesley…he died the moment my power touched him. What remained wasn’t him, any more than your armor is you. Your husband loved you right up until the end—his end.” 

Tears pricked at Aveline’s eyes, but she stubbornly blinked them back. “I wanted to hate you, for taking him away from me.”

“You have every right.”

“I can’t,” Aveline said with a dry chuckle. “I saw the pain leave his eyes.” She caught Marian’s gaze again. “You gave him peace. I can’t hate you for that—I’m grateful for it.” 

Marian’s brow tightened and she looked away. “I envy you, you know,” she said softly. “To have felt that kind of love…I can’t imagine.” 

Aveline laid a hand on Marian’s shoulder—a feeble first attempt to bridge the gap between them. “You’re still young,” she said. “You’ll get there someday.” 

“No, I won’t.” Marian tensed under the touch, and the sad smile that graced her lips as she looked up again made Aveline ache. This woman—girl, really—couldn’t be much older than twenty, but suddenly she seemed decades older. Her voice shook as she explained. “My power…it never goes away. If I were to relax my control on it, just the tiniest bit, it would be released. So if I were to take a lover…” she trailed off, breathing tremulously through the pain.

“They would be truly taken,” Aveline finished. Any lingering resentment she may have felt for Marian faded, at least temporarily, replaced with a profound sadness. Marian had done the only thing she knew to lessen Wesley’s pain. Aveline knew that if Marian hadn’t acted, she would have been forced to kill Wesley herself, and her memory of her husband would forever have been tainted by the knowledge that he had died at her hand. Marian helped to protect that memory, to keep the love she and Wesley had shared pure and unsullied—and she’d done it knowing all the while that she could never experience such a love herself. Aveline squeezed Marian’s shoulder, pointedly sustaining the contact. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Marian replied with a strained smile. She looked back up at her family, and the smile grew more solid. “I have my mother, and my sister. We’ve got more family waiting for us. There’s more than one kind of love.”

“I…suppose you’re right.” Aveline couldn’t relate, not really; her father was dead, and Wesley…she had no family remaining. She didn’t even know why she was going to Kirkwall with the Hawkes, except that she didn’t know what else to do, or where else to go. She wasn’t a soldier anymore, not with the Fereldan army scattered and broken. To say her future was uncertain would be an understatement.

Hesitant fingers, chilled from the night air, moved to cover Aveline’s hand. “There’s more than one kind of family, too.” 

For the first time since Wesley’s death, Aveline felt a genuine smile pull at her lips. Maybe she’d get through this after all.


	5. Chapter 5

“I can’t believe you never told me.” Leandra was reeling. Instead of being welcomed into Kirkwall by her beloved mother and father, she’d been greeted by an older, much more ragged version of her younger brother. Rather than being ushered back to the Hightown estate she’d grown up in, she’d been grudgingly led to a hovel in the slums of Lowtown, hardly fit for one person to live in, let alone five. 

Her parents were dead—had been for twenty-five years, Gamlen had told her, plenty of time for him to gamble away everything they left behind, including the estate that had been in the Amell family for generations. The family and security she’d been counting on to shield herself and her daughters was gone, and here they were in the templar capital of the Free Marches. They’d be lucky to survive long enough for Marian and Bethany to work off their debt to that smuggler. 

“And how exactly was I meant to do that?” Gamlen shot back. “You were always running from one place to the next—you and your Fereldan apostate.” He spat the words out like venom; it was unclear which was the more grievous sin—that Malcolm had been a mage, or that he’d been Fereldan. 

“You could have sent word, you could have _tried_ ,” Leandra insisted, her voice cracking. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Gamlen, they were my parents. I would have liked to say goodbye.”

“Yes, they always were _your_ parents, weren’t they?” he sneered, taking a step toward her. He gestured angrily as he spoke, his cheeks red from rage or drink, or both. “Never mine. I was just an afterthought. Just an unfortunate part of the package deal. Certainly threw a wrench into your mother’s plans.”

Leandra sighed. It had been the same since childhood, ever since her mother had taken his father for a mate. She couldn’t blame Gamlen for feeling bitter about it, but he’d always taken it just a step too far. “Mother loved you,” she said, with all the calm she could muster. “And she loved Father too, no matter what you may think of her.”

“ _Your_ mother was a creature, a monster who used love as a weapon to enslave _my_ father,” Gamlen corrected. He looked at her with a mixture of contempt and disgust before turning away, pacing to the other end of the room. “A talent she passed on to you, as you no doubt have passed to your own daughters.” He laughed bitterly, his back still turned to her. “At least you’ve got _some_ sort of family legacy. I couldn’t even keep my father’s name!” 

“The Amell name had more influence. It wasn’t a personal slight against you.” It was a futile argument, one she’d made far too many times. She’d long since grown weary of trying to explain the past to someone so adamantly opposed to understanding it, but arguing with her brother was all too easy a habit to fall back into. “And you exhausted the monster card decades ago.”

“Of course,” he scoffed, turning back to glare at her. “Just like always, I’m not allowed to be upset about anything.” 

“You were provided for,” Leandra reminded him. Her tone began to take on an edge as her patience wore thin. “You had the best of everything, just the same as I did.”

“Except the only thing I ever wanted was Father’s attention!” Gamlen’s voice grew louder as he stormed back to Leandra. Drink was definitely at least part of the reason for the flush in his cheeks; she could smell it on his breath. “And thanks to your mother, all he cared about was her, and you.” He shook his head, a flicker of pain flashing through his eyes before he narrowed them once more. “Did you know that your name was the last word on his lips? Even after your mother died, and he was freed from her blighted spell, you were all he could think about.” 

Leandra tried not to smile at the news. She had loved her father—and he _had_ been her father, far more than that youthful indiscretion of her mother’s that had resulted in her birth—and to hear that he had truly loved her in return, even without the influence of magic, sparked a joy in her that almost overshadowed her fear. “And yet somehow he still managed to leave everything to you?” she asked skeptically. Without their titles and status, they were more vulnerable than the most brazen apostate. “My children are facing a year in servitude— _servitude_! They should be nobility!”

Gamlen laughed, a cruel smile pulling at his mouth. “If wishes were poppy, we’d all be dreaming.”

Pressing her fingers to her forehead, Leandra took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to get sucked back into an argument. “Where is Father’s will?” she asked. “If he left the estate to you as you claim, you should have no problem with me looking at it myself.”

His gaze faltered. “It’s not here, all right?” he responded defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was read, it went into the vault. No one needed to look at it again. Anyway, I’ve told you what it said.”

“It would help if you weren’t lying about it.” Leandra arched an eyebrow, giving him a glare of her own. 

“You and your bloody power,” Gamlen spat. “It doesn’t sodding matter whether you believe me or not, the fact is it’s in the estate, and the estate is far out of our reach.” He gestured to the room around them, a vindictive smile on his lips. “Get used to Lowtown, Sister. That’s where we’re going to stay.”

Leandra scoffed in disbelief. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Me being forced to rely on you for a change.”

“Oh, yes!” Gamlen clasped his hands to his chest. His feigned giddiness faded into bitter vitriol as he spoke. “I just love you coming in and taking control of my house and my life, just like you always have!” 

“Is that why you told your _friends_ about Bethany’s magic?” Leandra asked. “Are you still so resentful of me that you would take it out on my daughter?”

“You’re lucky that’s all I told them,” Gamlen shot back, the malicious glint in his eyes growing brighter. “I’ve kept your bloody secret, for all the good it’s done me. All it would take is one word to any of the templars stationed here and I could have you all out of my hair in a heartbeat. You’d do well to remember that.”

For a long moment, all she could do was stare. She’d known her brother was bitter, but this…he almost seemed gleeful about the prospect of turning them in, and the thinly veiled threat in his tone was all too serious.

***

Bethany pulled her knees up tighter to her chest, trying to ignore the angry voices that echoed through the thin walls of Gamlen’s house. Arguments and bickering were nothing new to her—she’d grown up in a house with Marian and Carver, after all—but there was more bitterness and resentment here than she’d ever heard in either of her siblings’ voices. With everything so uncertain, it was almost more than she could stand.

On the other end of the small bunk, Marian sat sharpening one of her daggers. Gamlen’s voice rose sharply, and Marian’s hand slipped. She hissed as a thin line of blood welled up from her palm. Bethany uncurled herself and crawled over, covering her sister’s hand with her own. It wasn’t a deep cut, and it took barely a thought for a spark of magic to heat Bethany’s palm, knitting Marian’s skin back together good as new. 

“Thanks,” Marian said softly, flashing a crooked smile. She set her dagger and whetstone down with her freshly-healed hand, slipping her other arm around Bethany’s shoulders. Bethany leaned into the embrace, letting her sister’s strength steady her. 

Marian had always been good at comforting her. Carver would storm out to go practice with his sword, and the anger would slowly bleed from Marian’s face when she turned to see how the argument had affected her sister. Bethany would curl into Marian’s side, listening as Marian vented her frustrations about their brother. Carver had always resisted Marian’s attempts to make him a better man, one their mother wouldn’t be so terrified of. With how Mother treated him, like a deadly explosive set to go off at any moment, Bethany couldn’t blame him for acting out the way he did. 

He’d always apologized, though. He’d slink back in after an hour or so, sweat drying on his brow, and give her that sheepish smile; the one that said he knew he’d acted stupid, and that he was sorry for venting his anger and frustration in front of her. She always forgave him, stepping forward into his embrace and resting her head on his chest. His shirt would be damp from his exertions, but she’d always found the slightly acrid smell comforting in a way. Carver had never quite seemed to fit, all sharp edges and angry scowls, but he’d always softened just enough to let Bethany in. 

He wouldn’t be coming back this time. Not ever again. Tears pricked at Bethany’s eyes, and she burrowed deeper into Marian’s side. Slender, calloused fingers combed through her hair, dragging along her scalp, and Bethany squeezed her eyes shut, drinking in the comfort her sister offered. 

The sound of a throat clearing made Bethany’s eyes slide back open. On the other side of the tiny room, Aveline sat stiffly on a rickety stool, looking awkward and out of place. Between the argument in the next room and Bethany’s obvious distress, she had to be feeling more than a little uncomfortable. “That Athenril’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” Aveline asked finally.

Bethany shivered at the memory of the sharp-eyed elf that had helped them get into the city. She was grateful to Athenril, of course; without her help, they would have had no place to go at all. Still, the way those green eyes had lit up as they fixed on Bethany, the way her voice turned eager—almost hungry—when mentioning Bethany’s magic…it made Bethany nervous, to say the least. 

Her sister seemed to share the sentiment. Marian tightened her arm around Bethany, squeezing reassuringly. “That’s one way to put it,” she said dryly.

Aveline sighed. “I still think we’d have been better off with the mercenary. At least we’d know what we were dealing with.”

“Sure,” Marian replied, the tension in her shoulders giving the lie to her cavalier tone. “So long as you’re all right with killing people for a living.” 

“I’m sure it wouldn’t all have been killing,” Aveline said feebly. 

“Any amount of killing is too much,” Bethany said quietly, looking down at the weathered floorboards. She could still see Carver lying broken before her, black blood splattered across his face. Her throat tightened. “There’s been enough death.”

A shadow passed through Aveline’s eyes, and her gaze dropped to the floor. For long moments, the room was so thick with grief Bethany thought she might choke on it. Father, Carver, Aveline’s husband…even her own grandparents had died. When would it ever stop?

It was Aveline who finally broke the silence. “You were close, weren’t you?” she asked gently, her attention fixed on Bethany. “You and your brother.”

“We were twins.” A sad smile touched her lips. “I was the older, just barely. Marian used to tease him for being the baby. It drove him crazy.” She laughed fondly at the memory, but the mirth was short-lived. “He…Carver always felt like a mistake. Like he was the spare, the extra child that never should have been. Mother…didn’t help.”

Marian squeezed her again. “She was afraid, Bethy,” she said gently. 

“He was still her son,” Bethany insisted stubbornly. She may have understood her mother’s behavior, but that didn’t forgive it. Nothing ever could. 

“You don’t share her wariness of male confessors,” Aveline observed, green eyes sharp with curiosity. 

Bethany shook her head. “I knew Carver our whole lives,” she said, passion creeping into her voice and making it tremble. “He got angry sometimes, but he was a _good_ person. If he hadn’t gone bad in eighteen years, why would he suddenly become some sort of monster?”

Aveline didn’t have an answer for that. Her shoulders slumped as she sighed. 

“Nothing is ever certain,” Marian finally said softly. Bethany could feel the words rumbling under her cheek. “We do the best we can with what we’re given, and hope it all turns out all right in the end.” 

It was true, Bethany thought. That didn’t make it any better. It couldn’t bring Carver back.

“Sound advice,” Aveline said, her unease returning. “We’d do well to keep it in mind in the year to come.”


	6. Chapter 6

The dying screech of the last giant spider bounced off of the twisting walls of the cave, echoing all around them. Marian wiped sweat from her forehead, catching her breath as Aveline yanked her sword free of the creature’s twitching body. 

Aveline seemed brighter, happier now that she’d found her place with the city guard. She’d never been happy working for Athenril, though her duties had typically only consisted of standing guard while other, sneakier people—like Marian herself—performed the shadier, not-quite-legal tasks. She was a woman who thrived on order and respect for the rules—something Marian could understand, even if her own approach to things differed. As far as Marian was concerned, she would do what she had to in order to stay alive, and keep her family safe. 

Athenril had proved quite willing to take advantage of that fact; she’d kept her new recruits busy, and before Marian had even realized it, a year had passed. It was only now that they were freed from their debt that she’d been able to find the time to make the trek up to Sundermount to meet with the elves and fulfill her end of the witch’s bargain. Hopefully her tardiness in completing the task wouldn’t be too much of a problem; the witch hadn’t tracked them down and cursed them yet, so she assumed they were safe. 

Wiping her daggers clean of ichor, Marian trudged on ahead after their unlikely guide. Merrill was the shaky, nervous sort, tripping all over herself not to offend Marian and her companions. Marian couldn’t blame her, really, with the way her clan members seemed to treat her. She seemed sweet, and friendly enough; Marian had to wonder what was so terrible about the elf that made her clan so eager to get rid of her. 

Varric, at least, seemed to like her well enough, and for all that he wasn’t the most honest or law-abiding of men, he had proved to be an excellent judge of character. 

The dwarf had been a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. With their year of service completed, Marian and Bethany were free to pursue other sources of income, but they were also no longer under Athenril’s protection. Every minute that passed brought the danger of being discovered by the templars. For that reason alone, Marian was all too glad to get out of the city and breathe some fresh air for once. 

Still, they would have to go back. Varric had offered to help them raise money to join his brother’s expedition, and that’s what Marian was pinning her hopes on. If they found enough treasure in the Deep Roads, they could reclaim their family’s estate, and hopefully some of the protection that came along with being nobility. 

He had taken quite a shine to Bethany as well—something that had made Marian nervous, until she realized that he was far too devoted to his crossbow of all things to even consider preying on Bethany’s perceived innocence. The truth was, both sisters were well aware of the dangers the world posed, and Marian was grateful that Varric seemed intent on protecting Bethany from them. They’d only known the dwarf for a little over two weeks, but already he felt more like family than a business partner. 

Sunlight stung at Marian’s eyes as the cave opened up onto the summit of the mountain. A brazier hung from a thick stone pillar on their right, alight with magical flames. Gray clouds drifted overhead, halfheartedly threatening rain. Ahead of her, Merrill hesitated for a moment, digging nervously into the ground with her bare toes before her shoulders straightened and she trudged on down the path.

They followed behind until Merrill came to a stop before a wall of glowing blue light. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume they wouldn’t be able to just walk right on through.

Merrill turned, shifting nervously on the balls of her feet. “I can open the way forward,” she said, avoiding Marian’s eyes. “One moment.”

As Marian and her companions watched, Merrill stepped forward, looking intently at the ever-changing light. Slowly, she pulled the knife from her belt and drew it over the palm of her hand. Blood seeped from the wound, but as Merrill focused, it began to change. The thick, cloying scent of blood mingled with the sharp tang of magic as the liquid rose and dissolved into a fine mist, which Merrill then flung toward the barrier. The glow of the magic dimmed, then faded completely, leaving the way ahead clear.

Not that anyone made a move to continue. Varric was, as Marian had come to expect, unruffled by the display, but she heard Bethany gasp softly beside her, saw Aveline’s hands clench at her sides. She herself was too stunned to react; blood magic wasn’t something to be taken lightly, but Merrill had known exactly what to do. She had done this before.

When she turned back, it was clear that Merrill was expecting the shock. Shame flickered through her eyes, though she kept her chin raised proudly, daring them to say something.

“I felt the Veil shift,” Bethany said, eyes wide. “You _called_ something here. Are you insane?”

“Yes, it was blood magic,” Merrill admitted, wringing her hands together in front of her. “But I knew what I was doing. The spirit helped us, didn’t it?”

“Sure, demons are very helpful,” Marian offered warily. “Right up until they take your mind and turn you into a monster.”

“Well…yes. But that won’t happen,” Merrill said confidently. “I know how to defend myself.”

She wasn’t lying, at least. Merrill clearly believed she had the ability to control whatever it was she had summoned. The fact that she _thought_ it was the truth, however, didn’t mean that it was. This was the answer to Marian’s earlier musings, she realized; Dalish elves may practice magic freely, but even they were wary of blood magic.

“Be careful up ahead,” Merrill warned, turning away from their judgment. “Restless things prowl the heights.” She continued on down the path, relaying a story about the ancient elves of Arlathan coming to rest on the mountain as she walked.

The others moved to follow Merrill down the path, but Aveline gripped Marian’s arm, holding her back. “Are you certain you want to take her with us?” she asked in a low voice, eyeing the elf warily. “You bring a blood mage into Kirkwall, you’re asking for the templars to give you trouble. They don’t need more reasons to bring you in.” 

Marian sighed, running her hand through her messy hair. “We’ve done all right evading them so far, Aveline,” she pointed out. “Besides, we gave our word. We’ll get her back to the city, at least.”

Aveline pursed her lips. “I’ll follow your lead,” she said grudgingly, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“She’s a sweet girl. I don’t believe she wants to make trouble.” Marian was at least sure of that much.

“Oh, yes,” Aveline scoffed as Marian turned to follow the group. “Because trouble only ever happens to those who ask for it.”

As if on cue, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. Bony hands clawed their way out of the ground, and a flash of magic in the distance signaled the arrival of an arcane horror. Marian drew her daggers just in time to find herself locked in battle with one of the risen skeletons. 

Merrill’s magic proved useful, at least, and she didn’t seem inclined to use blood magic in battle, instead relying on the nature magic she had no doubt learned from her Keeper. With Varric’s crossbow keeping the horror distracted, the skeletons were dispatched with little effort. The only close call was when a shadow solidified behind Bethany, swinging its dark blade at her neck. It was caught by Aveline’s own sword, and quickly defeated when Bethany turned to add her magic to Aveline’s attacks. 

“I think it’s safe now,” Merrill panted, returning her staff to its place on her back. “Place the amulet on the altar, and I’ll begin the rite.”

Marian turned, noticing for the first time the crude stone altar at the edge of the cliff. A blue flame glowed brightly in a bowl in the center. She approached cautiously, pulling the amulet from a pouch on her belt. As she drew nearer to the alter, the amulet warmed in her hand, almost urging her forward. When she placed it gingerly on the stone, she could have sworn a light flickered in the center of the red gem. 

She stepped quickly away, her eyes never leaving the amulet. It had sat cold and idle in the bedroom at Gamlen’s for over a year, but now it seemed to be coming alive somehow; it wasn’t something Marian wanted to think about. 

Merrill knew what she was doing, however, which was a small comfort. Her hand glided gracefully in front of her, drawing invisible patterns in the air as she spoke the rite. The foreign syllables lilted off of her tongue, carrying a sort of magic Marian had never encountered before. 

When Merrill’s words came to a close, a flash of light enveloped the altar. Then, inexplicably, a glowing form seemed to crawl out of the amulet. As the light faded, the figure set its feet on the ground, raising its head. Its features gradually came into focus, and Marian held back a gasp as recognition set in. 

“Ah,” Flemeth sighed. Her gaze drifted up to the sky, then around at Marian’s companions, finally landing on Marian herself. “And here we are.”

Merrill had dropped to her knee the moment the witch had appeared, head bowed in deference. “Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar.”

“One of the People, I see,” Flemeth noted, turned her attention to the elf. “So young and bright. Do you know who I am, beyond that title?”

Tilting her head back, Merrill gazed reverently up at Flemeth. “I know only a little.” 

“Then stand. The People bend their knee too quickly.” As Merrill complied, Flemeth turned back to Marian, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. “So refreshing, to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain. I half-expected my amulet to end up in a merchant’s pocket.”

“No one wanted to buy it,” Marian joked, clenching her hands at her sides to keep from trembling. She’d nearly forgotten how imposing the witch was. “Maybe because it had a witch inside?”

“Just a piece,” Flemeth replied. She almost seemed amused by Marian’s discomfort. “A small piece, but it was all I needed. A bit of security, should the inevitable occur.” Her smile turned inward, a private fondness only she could understand. There was a hint of sadness in it. “And if I know my Morrigan, it already has.” 

Marian’s brow tightened. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. She’d never heard of amulets being used to store _people_ before. “Are you some kind of vision?”

At that Flemeth threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Must I be in only one place? Bodies are such limiting things.” Golden eyes sharpened as they fixed back on Marian’s blue. “I am but a fragment, cast adrift from the whole. A bit of flotsam to cling to in the storm.”

Well, that explained…nothing. “A fragment?”

Flemeth stepped forward, her smile dimming. “You do not need to understand, child. Know only that you may have saved my life, just as I once saved yours. An even trade, I think.”

She couldn’t argue with that, though Marian was beginning to wonder just what she might have set in motion by bringing the witch here. “You have plans, I take it?”

“Destiny awaits us both, dear girl,” Flemeth replied. Her gaze flickered to Bethany, then back to Marian. “Those such as you could never hope to escape it.” 

Marian’s eyes shot nervously to Varric and Merrill. They’d only told Aveline about their powers because they’d been forced to; letting more people in on the secret would only put them in more danger. Thankfully, the witch left it there. For once, Marian found herself grateful that Flemeth only spoke in riddles.

“There is much to do,” Flemeth continued, turning to look out over the cliff. “You will find that you are uniquely suited to see it done.” 

The words were heavy with meaning, but Marian was at a loss as to what that meaning could possibly be. She didn’t want a part of any destiny; she only wanted to make a life for herself and her family. The last thing she wanted was to do anything that would draw attention to them.

“Before I go,” Flemeth said, heedless of Marian’s concern, “a word of advice. We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap.” Her smirk returned as she spun back around to face them. “It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly.”

In spite of her unease, Marian couldn’t help but laugh. “Cheap advice from a dragon.”

Flemeth shrugged, arching an eyebrow. “We all have our challenges.”

A small hand curled around Marian’s arm, and she turned to see Bethany looking at her with wide eyes. “We’re going to regret bringing her here,” Bethany hissed.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Flemeth’s eyes narrowed, seeming to see into Bethany’s soul. “Regret is something I know well,” she said, her voice taking on the slightest edge of emotion. “Take care not to cling to it, to hold it so close that it poisons your soul. When the time comes for your regrets, remember me.” 

Bethany fell silent, and Marian knew she was thinking of Carver, and of what she could have done differently to save him. Even after a year, she still cried over him when they’d retired to their room at Gamlen’s for the night. 

“As for you, child,” Flemeth said, turning to Merrill. “Step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

Marian wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but Merrill seemed to understand it well enough. She bowed her head respectfully, clasping her hands in front of her. “Ma serannas, Asha’bellanar.”

Flemeth took a step back, giving the party one last, long look. “Now the time has come for me to leave.” Her eyes zeroed in on Marian’s, filling with something indecipherable. “You have my thanks…and my sympathy.”

A strong sense of foreboding settled in Marian’s stomach as Flemeth turned away, transforming in a flash of light. The dragon took wing, disappearing into the distance, but Marian hardly noticed. The witch had seemed to know the future, and if her reaction was anything to go by, it wouldn’t hold anything pleasant. 

“All right,” Merrill sighed almost sadly. “It’s time to go.”


	7. Chapter 7

The house was uncomfortably silent. Gamlen had stormed out like a petulant child after Marian confronted him about his father’s will; by now he was probably out drinking or whoring—or both, knowing her uncle. It had taken some time to calm Mother’s anger, but Marian had finally convinced her to get some sleep. She would want to be well-rested to see the viscount in the morning, after all.

Marian gently closed the door to the bedroom she shared with her mother and sister, letting out a heavy sigh as she turned to join Bethany at the table in the house’s main room. They hadn’t spoken much since they left the estate, save for the confrontation with Gamlen. The discovery they had made in their mother’s childhood home had been expected, for the most part, but the possible implications were staggering.

Their grandfather had left everything to them, to Mother and her children. The estate, the family wealth, everything. Gamlen had gambled it all away nonetheless, but Mother was convinced that she could petition the viscount to return the estate to them, now that they had rid it of the slavers who had called it home.

If they could get the estate back, it would change everything. The templars in Kirkwall certainly wouldn’t be deterred by a noble title or a Hightown address, to be sure—not if they had any idea what the Hawkes were—but they were far less likely to go sniffing around families with any sort of political presence. It was all a game, just as it had always been, but for once, Marian and her family found the odds shifting in their favor. They could breathe just a tiny bit easier—if, of course, Mother was successful in her endeavor.

Leaning back in her chair, Marian surveyed the stained and warped boards that made up the floor of Gamlen’s home. The fire burning in the hearth did little to cheer up the dilapidated hovel. The cracked stone walls kept the building interminably hot in the summer, and bone-chillingly frigid in the winter. A floorboard upstairs was loose, and it creaked and sent down sprinkles of dust whenever the people living there stepped on it. They must have gone to bed early, though, or else they were still out doing whatever it was Lowtown residents did in the evenings, because even that was silent.

“What do you think it would have been like?” Marian asked, her mind still reeling from the sheer size of the estate they’d cleared out just hours before. “Growing up in that big house, with all that wealth? Being nobility?” She glanced sidelong at Bethany, who cracked a small smile at the thought; the idea was foreign to them both.

“We wouldn’t have had to run all the time, that’s for sure,” Bethany replied. Her eyes dimmed as she looked away, lips pressing together in a thin line. “Carver might still be around.”

Marian sighed. “Probably not,” she said honestly, reaching over to rest a hand on Bethany’s shoulder. She tried to force humor into her tone as she continued. “With how short-tempered he was growing up, all it would have taken was a templar looking at him wrong and he’d have gotten us all locked in the Gallows, or worse.”

Bethany tried to smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears; it had been nearly a year and a half since Carver’s death, but Marian knew she still struggled with her grief. The twins had always been close.

“I don’t suppose he’d have had it any easier,” Bethany conceded crossing her arms over her ribs. “With Grandmother around, Mother might even have gotten her way and I’d never have known him.”

It was all too likely, and there was nothing Marian could say to make it any better. Instead, she slid her arm around Bethany, pulling her close and pressing a kiss into the side of her head. She may not have understood the bond her two siblings had shared, but she knew how she would feel if she lost Bethany or Mother, how she’d felt when Father died; family was everything to Marian, and to lose a piece of that was a pain no one should have to face.

Her thoughts strayed to the item she’d smuggled out of the family estate. She slid her free hand to her belt, fingers tracing the outline through the pouch she’d tucked it into. This probably wasn’t the right time. There probably wouldn’t _be_ a right time, truth be told. The last thing Bethany wanted was a reason to let go of her anger, but Marian had to try.

“I found something, when we were going through the estate,” Marian said hesitantly. She pulled the locket out of her belt, setting it down on the table with a soft clack. The tarnished gold shone as firelight flickered over the family crest engraved on the front. “I thought you might like to have it.”

Bethany reached for it, running a fingertip along the seam and popping it open. Her soft gasp was barely audible. “It’s Mother.”

The intricate portrait inside the locket was indeed their mother, some twenty years younger. Marian smiled softly, looking up from the picture to take in her sister’s similar features. “She looks like you.”

“She’s so young,” Bethany murmured, tracing the portrait with the tip of her finger. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so happy.”

“Well, it was before she had all of us to worry about,” Marian pointed out. She smirked at her sister. “Taking care of a family of confessors and apostates can take its toll on anyone.” Bethany smiled back, but as the moment wore on her expression began to falter. Marian rushed to continue. “I want to give some of that back to her, if I can,” she said hopefully. “She hasn’t been the same since Father died. Now that we might get the estate back, I’m hoping we can try to be a family again.”

“I’m not sure we ever really were,” Bethany said with a sigh, clicking the locket shut again. “We got close, when Father was alive, I suppose. He always did his best to make Carver feel like he belonged.” Her hand clenched around the locket, her voice wavering. “With both of them gone…I don’t see how we can ever get back there.”

“We’ve still got each other,” Marian said. She covered Bethany’s hand with her own, squeezing gently. “And Mother loves us both, you know that.”

Bethany clenched her jaw as she looked away. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive her for the way she treated Carver.”

Marian sighed. “You’ve got to make peace with that, Bethy,” she said, her patience wearing thin. “She did her best, trying to protect all of us. She may not have made the best choices, but she can’t change the past any more than you can.” Her tone turned pleading. “I’m not saying you should forget, but is forgiveness really too much to ask?”

For a long moment, Bethany’s shoulders remained stiff under Marian’s arm. Finally, Bethany exhaled a deep breath, and the tension slowly bled from her frame. “Maybe not,” she said grudgingly. “But it’ll take time.”

“Thank you,” Marian said with a relieved smile. She squeezed her sister’s shoulders once more, pressing another kiss to Bethany’s temple before pulling back. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I need to get out of this house. You want to see what Varric is up to at the Hanged Man?”

***

By now, the rowdy atmosphere of the Hanged Man was familiar to Marian. She could always count on the sounds of clay tumblers clinking together, the bard strumming his lute in the corner, the boisterous voices of men too drunk to remember how to speak at an acceptable volume. She’d found herself looking forward to Norah’s next scathing rebuke, or the latest bit of gossip Corff had managed to overhear.

Which was why Marian was surprised when she walked in with Bethany to find that a deadly calm had settled over the place instead. The tension in the room was thick, and everyone’s attention was focused on a lone woman leaning against the bar, surrounded by three angry-looking men. Marian reached out to stop Bethany from going any further; they were too far away to hear the conversation, but it was clear that it wasn’t going well.

The woman seemed unconcerned. She lifted her mug to her lips, looking only mildly irritated when the man to her right slammed it back down onto the bar. From across the room, Marian could barely make out the amused smirk on the woman’s full lips before it turned into a sultry pout. The woman raised a gloved hand, dark fingers caressing the side of the man’s face in a way that seemed far too friendly for the situation at hand.

Whatever the woman had murmured to him was too soft to hear, but no one could have missed the loud crack that sounded as his head met the worn wood of the bar. Marian watched wide-eyed as a full-scale brawl ensued. None of the other patrons seemed concerned, at least not enough to try to help or break it apart. The woman seemed capable enough, but three on one was poor odds for anyone.

She contemplated lending a hand, but it soon became clear that she’d gotten it wrong; the odds were anything but fair, but clearly they were skewed in the woman’s favor. The fight ended as the first man drew his sword only to find a wickedly sharp dagger at his throat. He sputtered a bit, but finally backed off, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled his buddies up from the ground and stormed out past Marian and her sister.

The bard hesitantly began strumming again, and hushed conversations started back up as the woman sheathed her dagger and returned to her earlier position, drinking heartily from her mug. She looked as though she’d barely broken a sweat.

Under normal circumstances, Marian would have headed straight back to Varric’s suite upon finding him absent from the main room. She and Bethany didn’t drink alcohol—for confessors, self-control was a precious commodity, and not one to be squandered needlessly—and that left little to do in a tavern, other than sitting around and taking in the lecherous glances and all-too-pungent smells of the other patrons.

Something about this woman intrigued Marian, though, and she found her feet taking her not toward the stairs in the back, but toward the bar where Corff was in the process of refilling the woman’s drink.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” the woman said, taking a long swig before turning to greet them. Her amber eyes drifted over Marian and her sister in appraisal. “Welcome, and keep your wits about you. You’re nothing but tits and ass to the men in this place, and they won’t hesitate to grab at both.”

Marian smirked, sharing a knowing glance with Bethany. “It’d be the last choice they ever made,” she said vaguely.

A dark eyebrow arched, and the woman’s lips curved up at the corner as she raked her eyes over Marian again, this time lingering long enough to make heat flood Marian’s cheeks. “My kind of woman,” she purred.

The way this woman was looking at Marian was almost identical to the drunken leering of the men who frequented the Hanged Man; a heated gaze that seemed to see right through her clothes, filled with the lewd things they’d like to do with her, or to her. Granted, the men here were usually more interested in Bethany—her body was a little more curvy, her clothes a little more close-fitting—but Marian was no stranger to lascivious glances. Why she should feel herself so affected by this woman, then, when she shrugged the men off with nary a second thought, was a mystery to Marian. Whatever the reason, she felt heat suffusing her body everywhere those amber eyes lingered.

“I’m Isabela,” the woman continued, smirking knowingly at Marian’s obvious reaction. She gave a little bow, her low-cut top providing a generous view of her cleavage; Marian tried not to look. “Previously Captain Isabela. Sadly, without my ship, the title rings a bit hollow,” she finished with a sigh.

There was a pounding in Marian’s ears, growing more insistent by the second. When she felt a flutter in her chest at Isabela’s interested gaze, she realized the pounding was her pulse. She swallowed hard, trying to keep a firm grip on her composure.

“You’re Fereldan, right?” Isabela asked. When Marian’s eyes widened in surprise, she chuckled. “You have that look about you. I was in Denerim not too long ago.” She grinned, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I even _met_ the Hero of Ferelden, if you know what I mean.”

Marian had heard stories of the Hero, filtering through the Fereldan refugees in Lowtown. The Blight that her family had so narrowly escaped had ended more quickly than any Blight in history, the Archdemon slain by an unlikely hero; a young Dalish elf, who had left her clan to join the Grey Wardens. She had perished in the fight, but not before delivering the killing blow. 

And apparently, she’d found time somewhere in there to become intimately acquainted with Isabela, if the woman’s tone and waggling eyebrows were anything to go on. 

“You know,” Isabela drawled, pulling Marian’s attention back to the present, “you might be just what I’m looking for to solve a little problem I have.” The words were just vague enough to carry a hint of possibility; Marian’s cheeks flushed at the thought of exactly what problem this beautiful, capable woman could have that she might want Marian’s help with. 

“Can’t anyone fix their own lives around here?” Marian grumbled good-naturedly, choosing to ignore the more dangerous line of thought. Ever since Varric had agreed to help them raise money for Bartrand’s expedition, it seemed Marian had been everyone’s errand girl. She’d done everything from finding lost items to tracking down an elf-blooded apostate and finding him a new home among the Dalish. Most recently, she’d been roped into tracking down the viscount’s missing son. It was a wonder she’d been able to find the time to clear out her family’s estate at all.

“Must be something in the water,” Isabela said with a mock sigh, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Someone from my past has been pestering me. I’ve arranged for a duel—if I win, he leaves me alone. But I don’t trust him to play fair. I need someone to watch my back.”

“Why a duel?” Marian asked. It wouldn’t be her first choice for problem solving.

Isabela shrugged. “I like duels,” she said, almost giggling. “It’s what I do. And if I win, he’ll be dead. Problem solved.”

Well, it sounded simple enough—if everything went according to plan. “So, who is this mysterious man from your past?”

“His name is Hayder.” Distaste colored Isabela’s voice. “We worked together back in Antiva. He’s never liked me.” The corner of her mouth curved up; clearly his opinion didn’t mean much. She let out a little sigh. “He’s been asking about me all around Kirkwall. Thought I’d get it over with and meet him face-to-face.”

This seemed a fairly straightforward situation; Isabela had it all figured out. Only one thing didn’t seem to fit. “What makes you think I’m right for this?”

Isabela’s eyes narrowed as she considered the question. “You saw me talking to Lucky, didn’t you?” At Marian’s nod, she continued, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her hip against the bar. “Those boys couldn’t manage simple information gathering. I can’t trust the riffraff in this place to do anything right. But you…you’re different.” Her exasperation faded as she met Marian’s eyes again; amber pools darkened, heat infusing her gaze as it lingered. “So what do you say? Help a girl out?”

Marian swallowed, fighting to control the blush rising in her cheeks as she nodded. “I think I can manage watching your back.”

“I’ll bet,” Isabela chuckled, dragging her eyes up Marian’s body one last time. When they reached Marian’s own, something shifted in them and it was back to business. “I’ve arranged to meet Hayder in Hightown tomorrow after dark. I’ll meet you there.”

Isabela sauntered out, deliberately brushing against Marian on the way. The fleeting warmth of full breasts pressed against her arm made Marian’s breath catch in her throat.

“You’re liable to catch flies,” Bethany teased, nudging Marian’s side. Marian started, her head jerking around to meet her sister’s raised eyebrow and amused smirk. As Marian struggled to speak, Bethany sobered, and concern dawned in her eyes. “Be careful, Sister.”

Marian sighed as the flutter in her chest turned to a dull, heavy ache. For a few minutes, she’d almost felt like a normal woman. “Aren’t I always?”


	8. Chapter 8

“I shit you not, Rivaini,” Varric said with a smirk, his eyes taking on a gleam that Isabela had come to recognize. The dwarf was quite the storyteller, even if most of his tales were more bullshit than not. He stretched out his hands, gesturing grandly to punctuate his words. “There we are pinned up against a wall of rock, this dragon spewing fire at us—every shot Bianca takes is burned to a crisp before it can hit its target. It’s all Aveline can do to avoid being roasted alive in that tin can she walks around in. Sunshine’s trying her best, but it’s taking all she’s got just to keep the heat off of us. So what does Hawke do? Tumbles right _into_ the flames. The dragon’s as shocked as we are, and for one golden second the fire stops—just long enough for me to fire a bolt toward its head. 

“Now, there’s not a lot of time to aim, and those scales are tough, but it’s a distraction, nothing more. Next thing you know, Hawke is leaping onto the creature’s back, shimmying up its long neck. Before the dragon can even think about trying to fling her off, she jams her blade into the back of its skull. It lets out this chilling wail—echoes all around the quarry—then it crumbles to the ground. And Hawke, she just rides it down, one foot planted on the center of its head, like some sodding hero of legend.”

As Varric leaned back, a smug smile on his lips, Isabela turned her attention to the hero in question, who was blushing furiously in her seat. “That’s…not exactly how it happened,” Hawke said modestly.

“Too bad,” Isabela said with a little pout, catching Hawke’s eye and nudging her leg with a booted foot under the table. “It’s quite the mental picture.”

Hawke’s cheeks burned brighter, and she suddenly became fascinated with the knots and dents in the wood table. It was precious, really, how the woman could stand toe to toe with a man like Hayder and make one sarcastic quip after another without blinking an eye, but the second Isabela did anything remotely flirtatious, she averted her eyes and struggled to string a sentence together.

It wouldn’t take long, Isabela was sure, to get the blushing young rogue into her bed. Judging from Hawke’s behavior so far, she was anything but experienced, but that was all right; there was something utterly delicious about the eager fumbling of virgins. Not to mention the fact that they tended to make excellent students. If Isabela was going to be stuck in Kirkwall for any amount of time, it’d be nice to have a reliable source of release that she didn’t have to pay for.

And Hawke would definitely fit the bill. Isabela had been right, after all, about Hawke holding her own in battle; she’d practically danced through the fight, deflecting blows rather than dodging them and unfailingly slipping her own blade in through the cracks of the raiders’ defenses. Hawke fought with a bloodlust that Isabela had seen get countless people killed, but she somehow managed to stop just short of letting it consume her—balancing on the knife edge of self-restraint. To say that Isabela was intrigued would be an understatement. When that kind of self-control shattered, the results tended to be cataclysmic—and, in Isabela’s experience, intensely pleasurable.

“Well, it’s been fun, ladies, but I’ve got some business to take care of.” Varric knocked back the last of his ale and pushed away from the table. “Bartrand’s keeping me busy getting ready for this expedition—but hey, it should be worth it, right Hawke?”

“I hope so.” Hawke sighed. “Mother’s pinned her hopes on getting the family estate back, but something tells me the viscount isn’t about to hear our petition without some coin to back it up.”

“Don’t worry, kid,” Varric replied with a roguish grin. “There’s bound to be enough treasure in that thaig to buy all of Kirkwall a few times over. When this is all said and done, you could buy the Viscount’s Keep right out from under him—and the title too, if you want that kind of headache.”

“I’d be happy with my own bedroom,” Hawke said with a chuckle. “Good night, Varric.”

Varric gave Hawke a playful little bow, then nodded toward Isabela. “Rivaini.”

As Varric headed for the stairs, Isabela turned back to Hawke with a sly smile. “So,” she drawled, her fingers toying with the rim of her tumbler, “you’re teaming up with Varric for this Deep Roads business?” She’d heard rumors of this venture of Varric’s. The idea of spending weeks underground in dark, enclosed spaces didn’t appeal to her one bit, but she’d be a piss-poor pirate if she didn’t perk up at the mention of vast hoards of treasure. It might be worth it—especially if she was sharing those tight spaces with one Marian Hawke.

“Haven’t got much choice,” Hawke replied with a shrug. “We can’t stay with my uncle forever.”

“Well, let me know if you need an extra pair of hands,” Isabela offered, a smirk playing at her lips. She quirked an eyebrow, letting her gaze drift down to Hawke’s chest suggestively. “I can never turn down the promise of booty.”

Hawke blushed and looked down at her hands. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before Isabela could tease Hawke any further, Norah came round to check on their drinks—well, on Isabela’s drink, at least. Hawke had abstained the whole evening, not taking so much as a sip of ale.

“Ah, Norah,” Isabela said, leaning back in her chair and eyeing the barmaid. She was a shapely woman, with a wit almost as impressive as her Maker-given assets. Sadly, she was hopelessly smitten with her employer, and had resisted all of Isabela’s efforts to bed her. “I’ll have another mug of Corff’s finest whiskey.”

Norah scoffed at the assertion, knowing full well the quality of the alcohol she served. She turned to Hawke. “And what can I get for you, love?”

“Oh, I’m all right, really.” Hawke replied politely.

“You sure?” Isabela prodded. “I’ll even pay, as thanks for helping me with Hayder.” It wasn’t something she did very often; coin could be hard to come by, and buying things for other people when she should be fixing her own problems was a nasty habit to get into. Still, if it got Hawke to loosen up a bit…

“Come on,” Norah chimed in, bumping Hawke’s shoulder with her hip. “You must be thirsty. You’ve been here for over an hour.”

Hawke hesitated. “Some water would be nice,” she said with a shrug, glancing up at the barmaid.

Norah chuckled and shook her head, heading to the bar to collect their drinks. Isabela quirked an eyebrow at Hawke, studying her curiously. “You’re taking a risk, drinking the water here,” she warned. “At least alcohol kills whatever nasty bits are lurking about.”

Hawke’s lips pressed together, twisting nervously to one side. “I don’t drink.”

Isabela tutted, shaking her head. “You’re missing out.” She raised her eyes to Hawke’s, a sultry smile tugging at her lips. “There’s nothing like a stiff one after a good battle. Booze is nice, too,” she added with a wink.

That flush rose again in Hawke’s cheeks; the color looked good on her, Isabela had to admit—and she was so very fun to tease.

Norah chose that moment to return, setting their drinks down in front of them. Hawke took a tentative sip of hers, then set the mug down in front of her, picking idly at the chips in the clay with a blunt fingernail.

Isabela considered taking pity on Hawke, but it was far too fun watching the girl fumble for a topic. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, taking a healthy swig of her own drink. She grimaced at the bitter, sour flavor—somewhat akin to what she imagined rat droppings must taste like.

“So this relic,” Hawke finally said, peering up at Isabela. “That’s what you had Lucky and his boys tracking down?”

Balls. She _would_ get right into the hard stuff. Isabela rolled her eyes. “For what good it did me,” she said with a huff. “Those boys couldn’t find their own balls with two hands and a map.”

Hawke’s laugh shook some of the tension from her shoulders. “It must be quite valuable,” she said, “to have this Castillon fellow so angry at you.”

“You could say that.” It was valuable to some, at least—incredibly valuable, which was reason enough for Isabela to be kicking herself over losing it in that sodding shipwreck.

“So what is it?” Hawke asked. “Some priceless heirloom, a jewel the size of my head?”

Isabela shifted uncomfortably. “I...don’t know what it is, exactly,” she lied. “It was in a box.”

The look on Hawke’s face said plainly that she didn’t buy it for a second. Her brow furrowed, and those ocean-blue eyes narrowed, seeming to peer right into Isabela’s head and lay bare all of her deep, dark secrets. It was creepy; Isabela fought the urge to shudder, instead taking another sip of her whiskey.

“You’re trying to track down a relic you lost in a shipwreck,” Hawke said skeptically. “You don’t know what it is, but it’s valuable enough to make up for setting free an entire cargo ship full of slaves. And you’re just going to hand it over to Castillon and be on your merry way?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds absurd,” Isabela muttered, a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth.

“You don’t strike me as the type to just give people what they want,” Hawke pointed out. “Why not sell the relic yourself, take the profits and run?”

Isabela shook her head. “Sweet thing, I’m all for new experiences, but dying isn’t something I fancy trying anytime soon.” Not that she hadn’t considered it; that silly book could buy her an entire armada, with coin left over. “Castillon’s got more manpower than I could dream of. Better to just give him what he wants—then I’ll be free to do what _I_ want.”

A small, shy smile crept onto Hawke’s face. She hesitated for a moment before asking, “And what do you want?”

“I can think of a few things,” Isabela replied with a sultry smirk, dragging her eyes down Hawke’s chest. Truthfully though, more than anything, she wanted a ship. A sleek, sturdy galleon, with decks gleaming in the afternoon sun, sails as white as an Orlesian noblewoman’s backside billowing in the breeze. A captain’s cabin topside with a nice, big bed and silk sheets the color of the deep ocean off the coast of Rivain. Not to mention, of course, a crew of scantily-clad, well-muscled men and women of every flavor. Just because she made it a point not to sleep with her crew didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun looking.

Hawke’s nerves were making a visible comeback; there was a flash of want in her eyes that quickly got swallowed up by something darker, something almost like pain.

“What about you?” Isabela asked, surprised to find that she was actually interested in Hawke’s answer. “What hidden desires lurk within the heart of the mighty dragon-slayer?”

Taking in a shaky breath, Hawke curled her fingers around her drink. “I…I don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” Isabela said, chuckling. “You don’t have to tell me. Showing can be much more fun.” Her voice grew steadily lower and huskier, colored with the thoughts of all the things she could do with—and to—Hawke. “Anyway, that’s why you came here in the first place, isn’t it?”

Hawke looked up sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

Isabela let out a throaty laugh. “There’s no need to be coy about it. I did offer, after all.”

“Oh, no, I-I don’t—” Hawke stumbled over her words, unable to meet Isabela’s eyes. “I mean, I can’t...”

It hit Isabela then—Hawke really _didn’t_ come here to take her up on her offer. The girl wanted her; if there was one thing Isabela was good at—well, besides sailing, or drinking, or stealing, or sex—it was recognizing when someone was attracted to her, and Hawke looked at her like she was a compass needle and Isabela was true north. Yet still she held back; Isabela was confused, to say the least. “You’re not saving yourself for the Maker, are you?”

The sudden scoff told Isabela that Hawke thought about as highly of the notion as she did. “No,” Hawke said, shaking her head.

“I’ve got to tell you, you’re ruining the whole dashing hero image,” Isabela said with a wry smirk. “No drinking, no sex. Aside from fighting dragons, you don’t do anything fun, do you?” As she spoke, she slid her hand across the table, teasing at the back of Hawke’s with one fingertip.

Hawke drew her hand back as if burned. “I should go,” she said nervously, pushing away from the table to rise to her feet. “I don’t want Beth or Mother to worry.”

Isabela frowned, her brow tightening as she watched Hawke hurry out of the tavern. That one would be a tough nut to crack, that much was sure; what remained to be seen was whether the reward would be worth the effort.

***

The frigid Lowtown air was a welcome chill to Marian’s heated cheeks. She could breathe easier now, without Isabela’s eyes burning into her skin. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest, and she crossed her arms over her ribs in an effort to contain it as she began the short walk back to Gamlen’s.

She probably shouldn’t have continued on to the Hanged Man earlier, when Bethany announced her intention to go home early and catch up on sleep. It had been an eventful night, to say the least; the so-called “duel” with Hayder had predictably turned into an ambush, and he hadn’t been happy to discover that Isabela had twisted the rules a bit herself.

Rules didn’t seem to mean much to Isabela, really. Marian had only known her a day, and already she could see that the pirate did as she pleased, without regard for what others might think. She had a way of brazenly stepping across the threshold of personal space, leaning in close to murmur bawdy comments under her breath, reaching out to touch Marian without a thought as to whether the contact would be welcome.

Of course, it probably didn’t help that Marian hadn’t been able to decide whether it was welcome or not. She’d never been close to anyone outside of her family before, and because of her powers, she had always been cautious with her touch, all too aware of what it could do.

If Isabela knew, she would never be so free with her own touch. It might be for the best; the electric heat that suffused her body at just the slightest brush of Isabela’s fingers was distracting—and for Marian, distraction meant danger. 

To come clean, though, to tell Isabela what she was, what she could do, would be a risk all its own. Outside of her own family, Aveline was the only one who knew of the Hawkes’ secret legacy. If they were discovered, it would mean death for all of them—and likely anyone who helped keep the secret, given what Marian knew of the templars in Kirkwall.

The fact was, she barely knew Isabela. Marian didn’t think Isabela would run to the templars just for kicks, but if there were profit in it...well, it seemed pretty clear that Isabela’s loyalties lay with no one but herself. 

She would just have to avoid Isabela as well as she could—or, failing that, find the fortitude to resist the pirate’s advances. Isabela was bound to give up sooner or later, when it became clear that trying to get Marian into bed was a lost cause. 

At least, Marian hoped so. 

The door to Gamlen’s house creaked loudly, despite her efforts to be as quiet as possible. It was late, and she assumed everyone would already be in bed. She closed the door gently behind her, freezing in place when she turned to see a figure seated by the fire.

“I thought you’d be in bed,” she said, when she’d gotten over her surprise.

Mother smiled, looking up from her seat. “Bethany seemed to think there was cause to worry about you,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “She was exhausted, so I told her I’d wait up for you.”

Marian looked down at the floor, laughing softly to herself. Bethany had seen how Isabela affected her; she’d nearly insisted on staying at the Hanged Man with Marian for added support, but Marian had seen the fatigue lining her sister’s face. Containing her confessor power was difficult enough; Marian could only imagine the strength needed to keep control of magic on top of it.

“Beth worries too much,” Marian replied, forcing a casual smile onto her lips. 

“She looks out for you,” Mother corrected. “As you do for her.” Her smile faded, and she turned her gaze to the fire. “I’m glad that you have each other. I worry about her, but she doesn’t let me too close. Not since Carver...”

She didn’t need to finish. Marian sighed, making her way over to the chair across from her mother. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, reaching across the distance between their chairs to cover her mother’s hand with her own. “His death, or his life.”

A soft, humorless laugh escaped Mother’s lips, and she turned her hand over, interlocking their fingers. “I wish it were that easy to believe,” she said wearily. “It’s hard not to think of all the pain that could have been avoided, if only Malcolm had let me do what needed to be done.”

“I know he was irritating, but he didn’t turn out all bad,” Marian cracked, using her wit to cover her discomfort. She’d never liked the idea of killing an infant, regardless of what it might grow up to be. “It could have been worse.”

“Some might disagree,” Mother replied, guilt shading her voice. “That girl in Lothering would certainly be better off.”

“You can’t blame that on his being male, Mother.” Marian said, shaking her head. She closed her eyes momentarily, and drew her lower lip between her teeth as Isabela flashed in her mind’s eye. “It could have happened to any of us.”

Mother’s gaze turned shrewd; Marian could feel it probing, trying to puzzle out her thoughts. “What’s on your mind?” Mother asked gently, giving her hand a squeeze.

Marian sighed, turning her focus on the fire burning low in the hearth. She didn’t know where to start, how much to tell. Mother would understand, surely; she must have dealt with impossible desires when she was young, before Father…

Before Father. Marian cocked her head, peering back at her mother. “Father wasn’t confessed,” she said slowly. She’d asked about it before, but Mother had always shrugged off the question with a vague explanation of unique circumstances and powerful magic. It had always been enough for Marian, because she hadn’t had any reason to press; now she found herself curious for reasons that were anything but academic.

Mother tugged free of Marian’s grip, clasping both hands in her lap. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you asked,” she said with a sigh. Her gaze turned distant as it shifted to the fire. “I was a little younger than you when I met Malcolm. He was a mercenary then, and it was quite the scandal for me to even talk to him.” A wistful smile crept onto her face. “Mother was concerned for another reason; I was young, and had been fairly sheltered all my life. I had never known someone like your father—so worldly, so dashing. I was besotted from the start.” She chuckled softly. “Young as I was, though, I was no fool,” she was quick to add. “I always declined his advances, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop meeting him. He was…a very special kind of man.”

“Yes, he was,” Marian agreed fondly, memories of her father rushing in to wrap themselves around her; for a second, it was almost like being in his arms again. “But I still don’t understand. You knew nothing could ever come of it, that he’d be confessed if you were to be with him…yet here we all are.”

“I was getting to that,” Mother said, tension bleeding into her frame. “My parents coerced me into attending a masked ball—we had to keep up appearances, after all. It was there that Malcolm found me, back from some wild adventure he’d been on.” She paused, keeping her eyes on the fire as she contemplated her words. “He told me he’d been recruited by the Grey Wardens to help seal away an ancient evil—a Tevinter magister, he said, who he believed to be one of the very first darkspawn.”

Mother breathed out a long, shaky breath. “He did as the Wardens told him, but not before he had a conversation with this magister. He’d made a deal, he said, that he would free the man in return for one favor: the magister had to use his power to make your father immune to confession.”

Marian’s mouth fell open; her father, making deals with what might as well have been a demon? He’d always been vigilant in teaching them all about the dangers of the Fade, even if Bethany was the one who really had to worry about it. “He didn’t fulfill his end of the bargain, though?” 

“No.” Mother chuckled. “Your father always had a roguish streak in him. He tricked the magister into giving him what he wanted, then finished the job the Wardens sent him there to do. To this day, he’s still trapped in that magical prison.”

“So he waltzed into this masked ball and swept you off of your feet?” Marian asked, flashing her mother a rakish smile. 

“Hardly,” Mother scoffed. “I was furious with him. I couldn’t believe he’d risked his life like that, and for me!” Her lips curved up again, and for a moment she was lost in the memory. “By then he knew me too well, though—he knew exactly what buttons to press to make me lose my temper, and I was so overwhelmed that finally my power broke free of my restraint. I was horrified at the sight of his eyes turning black. The guilt I felt at having confessed the man I had come to love was crushing.” Her smile broadened. “Then I looked down at him, kneeling before me with a ring in his hand. He was still himself, still my Malcolm, and I nearly cried with relief. He didn’t even need to ask; I was already his.”

Marian smiled, in spite of the sinking feeling in her stomach. Her mother had managed to find real love; a feat heretofore unknown to confessors, if what little they knew of their history could be believed. The likelihood of it happening again, however…

“Thank you for telling me,” Marian said, reaching across to take her mother’s hand again. She forced a yawn. “I’m beat, though. Got to get up early to go track down the viscount’s boy.” 

Mother gave her a knowing glance, but nodded a little. She would let Marian keep her thoughts to herself, for now. “Sleep well, my child.” 

A heaviness settled on Marian’s shoulders as she stood and made her way to the bedroom. It had been foolish to hope that there was some way she could give in to her desires without destroying someone’s soul. She would just have to be strong—and it couldn’t hurt to avoid being alone with Isabela at all costs.


	9. Chapter 9

There was an eerie, unsettling feel to the cave, the sense that something was deeply wrong. Marian stepped cautiously around piles of bones, gripping her daggers at her sides. Glancing to the side, she saw that Bethany looked on edge as well—perhaps more so. 

“You all right?” Marian murmured softly. 

Bethany nodded. “This place…the Veil feels thin here. I don’t think these are ordinary apostates hiding out here.” 

Blood magic. Marian tensed and glanced back at Varric and Isabela, who were following behind just as warily. Not that she doubted anyone’s skill, but she was starting to regret not bringing Aveline or Fenris, someone with a little more muscle behind their blades. Aveline was busy training for her new position as Guard Captain, though, and while Marian didn’t know Fenris all that well, she knew he’d sooner run his blade through an apostate than show them mercy. It was one of the reasons she’d kept her distance from him, though he’d offered his assistance with anything she might need. If he felt that way about mages, the Maker only knew how he’d react to a confessor.

She could only hope that Bethany was wrong, that these mages would be reasonable and understand the value of what Ser Thrask was trying to do. The templar had surprised Marian by showing genuine concern for the mages under his care; he hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest that Marian had found that elf-blooded boy a home among the Dalish, rather than bring him to the Circle. 

It was that concern, the truth of which shone brightly in his eyes, that had convinced Marian to help him in this. The last thing she wanted was to involve herself—and her family—in templar business, least of all actually helping to round up mages to bring back to the Circle, but when the alternative was letting them die for an accident of birth, well…she could hardly just stand by and let it happen.

The cave opened up into a small cavern; Marian’s eyes scanned the space, watching for anything out of place. A small bone crunched under her foot, the sound echoing loudly off of the walls, and then suddenly everything was chaos. The piles of bones they’d seen scattered along the path began to reassemble into walking skeletons, charging at Marian and her companions. On the other side of the cavern a figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere; the long robes and staff identified him as a mage.

A mage who could raise the dead. Marian groaned. Bethany had been right—there was definitely blood magic at work here. Marian surveyed the battlefield. There were at least a half-dozen skeletons, possibly more, and the mage was gathering energy—for an attack, or to summon more of the dead, Marian didn’t know, and she didn’t want to wait to find out. 

Leaving the others behind to deal with the skeletons, Marian headed for the apostate. Their eyes met, and for an instant she saw a flicker of fear in his face before it hardened with resolve. His staff, formerly held vertically as he gathered power, now pointed at her, shooting bursts of magical energy at her as she advanced. Marian dodged them, weaving her way across the cavern until she was just a few paces away from him. When his staff began to crackle with electricity, she tumbled forward, coming up behind him in one smooth movement and jamming her dagger between his ribs. A wet gasp tore from his throat as his staff clattered to the ground.

Marian pulled her weapon free, glancing up to see that the others were making short work of the skeletons. Only one remained, and she watched as it was crushed by a falling stalactite. Varric smirked, drawing Bianca back and folding the laths down at her sides with a cheerful click. Marian grinned; he _would_ find a way to use a crossbow against skeletons. 

As she wiped her dagger clean on the fallen mage’s robes, her eyes fell on his face. His body was twisted to the side, his features barely visible in the dim shadows of the cave. He’d been young—perhaps younger than Bethany, even. She sighed, choking back her disgust at what she’d been forced to do. 

A hand fell onto her shoulder, and a feeble smile crept onto Marian’s lips as she looked up, expecting to see her little sister’s sympathetic gaze. Her heart leapt in her chest when she was met with Isabela’s cool, knowing smirk instead. 

“Don’t worry about him, Hawke,” Isabela said casually. There was a flash of understanding in her eyes. “He asked for it, attacking like he did. Not much else you could have done.” 

Marian sucked in a shaky breath as she nodded. “I know,” she said, pulling away from Isabela’s touch. She offered the pirate a weak, sad smile. “It’s still a waste.” 

As they moved deeper into the cave, they were met with more skeletons and animated corpses, but no more mages appeared until they reached a large, cavernous room swarming with the walking dead. A lone boy in robes, about the same age as the last, was huddled in the corner, shrinking away from the creatures surrounding him. A swift burst of fire from Bethany’s staff was enough to shift their attention.

When the last of the creatures fell, the boy crept forward, his eyes alight with gratitude. “Maker’s blessing! I thought I was going to die down here in this—this tomb!” He shuddered, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. He looked at Marian hopefully. “Are you with the templars? Please, I need to get back to the Circle. I never wanted to get involved in this. Not when he started making those—those things!”

“Slow down,” Marian said calmly, offering him a comforting smile. “What’s your name?”

“I—I’m Alain,” he replied, still trembling. 

“Alain,” Marian repeated. “Are you saying one of the other mages raised the dead?”

“Decimus,” Alain said, a look somewhere between fear and disgust twisting his features. “It was all his idea. He kept saying the templars would label us blood mages if we fled—why not use it if it’s our best tool? He slit his wrists and the magic—it rose from the blood and woke the skeletons in the cave.” His eyes glistened with the threat of tears. “I ran. Decimus is wrong—blood magic is a work of evil, not just a power the templars keep from us for spite!”

Marian shared a glance with Bethany, who gave a slight nod. The boy was telling the truth, and he was terrified. If he wanted to return to the Circle, they wouldn’t deny him. “There’s a templar waiting outside the cave by the name of Thrask,” she told him. “Surrender to him and he’ll see that you’re not hurt.”

Alain nodded gratefully, moving quickly toward the exit of the room. He stopped and turned, his eyes wide with renewed fear and concern. “Be careful,” he warned. “The rest of them, they’re still following Decimus. He’s gone mad—I think he’d kill us all just to take the templars down.”

“We’ll be all right,” Marian said with a smirk, projecting a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “You just get yourself to safety. We’ve cleared the way behind us, so you shouldn’t have trouble finding your way out.”

The boy turned away, hurrying up the stairwell. Marian inhaled deeply, bracing herself for what lay ahead. 

The cave ended at a room larger than the last. Light spilled in from a gap in the rocks near the ceiling at the far end; trees were partially visible through the opening, standing stark against the gray sky. In the center of the room, a man Marian could only assume was Decimus stood in a circle of glowing light with two other mages kneeling at his feet. Blood stained the ground. 

Around the room, several more mages looked on, their expressions varying from mad conviction to mortal fear. Some were clutching their wrists, blood seeping out from beneath their hands. A few bodies littered the ground at their feet; likely those who had not been strong enough to provide Decimus with the desired power. 

Marian tightened her grip on her daggers, glancing at each of her companions in turn before nodding. Together, they spilled into the room.

Decimus’s head shot up, his eyes flaring with resolve. “They’re here!” he cried, raising his staff. “The templars have come to take us back to the Circle!” 

One of the young women at his feet rose, tugging on the arm that held his staff. “Decimus, no—stay your hand,” she urged. “These are no templars.”

“Silence, Grace!” Decimus boomed, his hate-filled gaze locked on Marian. “It does not matter what shield they carry! If they challenge us, the dead themselves will meet the call!”

Before Grace could make any further attempt to hold him back, he pulled his arm free. His staff pulsated with power, and all around them the dead began to rise. Several of the other mages joined the fight, but just as many retreated, huddling back against the edges of the room while the battle raged. 

The mages had never been trained for battle; they were weak, but stubborn in their conviction. Those who stepped up to help defend Decimus fought fiercely, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the skill and training of Marian and her companions. Soon Decimus was the only mage still fighting, and there were only a handful of his risen minions left to destroy. 

Marian didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt as she slid her daggers into his gut. This man was the cause of an intolerable amount of fear and suffering—the looks on the faces of the surviving mages were proof of that. 

Only one mage looked less than relieved. “You—you killed him!” Grace cried accusingly, pinning Marian with eyes brimming with bitterness and grief. Grace rushed forward, falling to her knees to cradle Decimus’s head in her lap. Her expression softened as she looked down at him. “Oh, Decimus. You should have listened to me, love.” 

Bethany stepped up beside Marian, her staff still in hand. They both knew that this wasn’t necessarily over. 

Grace heard her approach and looked up, narrowing her eyes at Bethany. “You,” she spat, rising to her feet. “You are one of us, but you wear no mark of the Circle. How is it you side against your own?”

Bethany scoffed. “That man was a blood mage. I don’t have to be a part of the Circle to know that’s wrong.”

Tears pooled in Grace’s eyes as she shook her head. “Decimus gave us the courage to face the templars. Without him, we would be prisoners still.”

“He obviously meant a lot to you,” Marian said warily.

“He was our future,” Grace replied passionately. “Until he came, we never thought to fight back. I told Decimus he was going too far, but he said it was the only way to protect us—to protect me.” A few tears spilled over her cheeks, and she looked down as she wiped them away. “Please…we only want our freedom,” she continued, her eyes still fixed on the ground. “Without your help, the templars will execute us all for Decimus’s crimes.”

Marian still wasn’t convinced that they shouldn’t; Grace made a compelling case, but without eye contact, Marian couldn’t be sure if she was telling the truth. “Where do you plan to go, if not the Circle?” 

Grace clasped her hands in front of her, looking up but still avoiding Marian’s gaze. “I’ve heard there are places, outside the Free Marches, where the templars are not so vigilant.” Her eyes shifted from side to side as she said it, but Marian caught a momentary glimpse; it was enough to see that Grace was telling the truth, but not the whole truth. 

“How exactly do you expect me to help you?” Marian asked, flexing her fingers around the hilts of her weapons. 

“There was a templar who followed us,” Grace replied, too quickly. “You must have met him when you entered. Kill him, and we can get clear of Kirkwall before the templars send more men.”

Bethany shifted uneasily at Marian’s side. “Sister…” 

“I know,” Marian replied, her eyes never leaving Grace. The woman was far too earnest, far too quick with her ideas. It was clear she was grieving, but there was something Marian didn’t trust about her.

“So what do you say?” Grace asked, pasting a hopeful smile onto her lips. “Will you buy us time to flee Kirkwall?”

Marian narrowed her eyes. “And you’ll, what…just run off into the wilderness and never make trouble again?”

“Of course,” Grace replied. “We only want to be free.” 

She’d made the mistake of looking up as she spoke, allowing Marian to see into her eyes. The need for vengeance drowned out the desire to be free—Grace had no intention of running quietly away. Marian glanced at her sister, who nodded almost imperceptibly; she’d seen the same thing. “You’re lying.”

Grace’s features twisted into a mask of rage, and she snatched up Decimus’s staff from the ground. Before she could get off a single spell, one of Isabela’s daggers embedded itself in her chest. Isabela was at her side before she hit the ground, pulling her weapon free and wiping it clean. 

Marian let her gaze circle the room, waiting to see if any of the other mages would offer a fight. They stayed where they were, trembling with fear as they awaited their own executions. One by one, Marian approached them, but she didn’t see the same spark of violent conviction in their eyes. These last few had merely been victims of Decimus’s insanity; these few were the ones who, unlike Grace, truly only wanted to be free. 

She couldn’t send them off to the Gallows. Alain had chosen that path for himself, but Marian couldn’t—wouldn’t—make that choice for anyone else. 

“I’ll clear the way out,” she said, loud enough for them all to hear, “and convince the templars that I killed you all. They won’t come looking for you anymore.” She met Bethany’s eyes, smiling at her sister’s approving nod. “You’re free.”

***

Marian heard the templars before she saw them; she crept toward the entrance to the caverns, keeping hidden behind the rocks. Alain was standing at Thrask’s side, still trembling—but that could have had more to do with the other templar currently interrogating them than blood magic.

“Are you telling me this boy is all that’s left of the apostates?” This had to be Ser Karras. Thrask had told Marian about the man’s violent hatred of mages, how he didn’t need an excuse to slaughter anyone with the slightest magical talent. 

“I—I ran away when they began to use blood magic, ser,” Alain explained, his voice quavering. 

Thrask seemed ready to speak, which meant Marian couldn’t just stand by and watch any longer—the more Thrask said, the less convincing her own story would be. Swallowing back her nerves, she stepped out of the cave, drawing the templars’ attention to herself. Alain caught her eyes and gave her a shy, grateful smile; she forced herself to ignore it and prepared for the role of a lifetime. If she failed to be convincing, it would mean death for them all—and she’d never been a very good liar. 

“Who is this?” Karras demanded, glaring suspiciously at Marian and her companions. 

“I was helping Ser Thrask,” Marian supplied, donning a cocky smirk to cover her nerves. “The apostates are dead.” 

Thrask’s eyes widened as a look of horror dawned on his face. “Dead? But I asked—”

“You’ve always been soft on the robes, Thrask,” Karras sneered. “Makes me wonder if these demon-worshippers haven’t gotten their fingers into your mind.” A dark urge rose in Marian—a desperate desire to confess this man, to see him kneeling before her begging to serve. It would serve him right; a fitting punishment for a man so irredeemable. She choked it back as he turned back to her, his eyes narrowing. He took in the blood splattered over Marian’s armor, and that of her companions; the fight with Decimus had been messy, and Marian had gotten the worst of it, with how close she’d been when she’d split his gut open. “They’re all dead, you say?”

He wouldn’t be satisfied without seeing for himself; she had to redirect him somehow, get him to leave at least long enough for the remaining mages to escape.

“Not all of them,” Varric chimed in, flashing Marian a knowing smirk. Relief flooded her chest; he was much better at this than she was. “A few cowards ran out the back, heading for the coast. We couldn’t catch them in time.” 

Thrask’s brow tightened in confusion; Marian could see that he wasn’t sure what to believe. Warily, he turned to Karras. “We can still catch up if we go around the caverns—that’s the faster route.”

“The coast, you say?” Karras considered it, giving Marian and her companions another piercing look before addressing his men. “Men, fan out. Search the shore. We will retrieve these corpses later.” He turned back to Marian, a look somewhere between suspicion and gratitude on his face. “The Knight Commander will hear of the service you did us.”

Marian could hear the subtle threat in his voice; whether she was telling the truth or not, Knight Commander Meredith would be well aware of her existence now. Getting Bartrand’s expedition off the ground was suddenly more crucial than ever. 

Two templars stepped up to take Alain into custody, while the others set off with Karras. Thrask looked at Marian for a long moment, trying to puzzle out the truth. He still looked like he wasn’t sure if she was the mages’ killer or savior. 

That was all right with Marian. It would be far better to have a reputation among the templars as a mage-killer than to risk them sniffing around her family. The truth was only important if you were alive to know it.


	10. Chapter 10

If there was one thing Varric was good at, it was sniffing out a good story. He was, of course, good at a great many other things as well—make no mistake. But he was a storyteller at heart, and he’d known the second he met Marian Hawke that she would provide him with more stories than a spoiled noble’s library—and they’d be more interesting. 

Hawke was an enigma. Most of the time she’d seem perfectly simple—just a poor Fereldan kid trying to make a life for herself and her family—but there were occasions when she’d clam up and get all secretive, like she had something to hide—something big. 

Then there were times like now: all of them sitting around a table in the Hanged Man, drinking and playing rounds of diamondback and Wicked Grace. Well, most of them were drinking; Hawke and Sunshine abstained, as usual, and Aveline had limited herself to one ale, which she’d been nursing for the last hour. Isabela was being…well, Isabela, sitting just a little too close to Hawke, letting her eyes linger just a little too long on key parts of her anatomy, and Hawke…well, she didn’t look like she minded, but she wasn’t swooning at Isabela’s feet, either.

The first time he’d seen the two together, when he’d helped out with that Hayder situation, he’d seen a spark of chemistry between them that could have lit up the sky all over Hightown. Sitting here with them afterward, bullshitting about Hawke’s many adventures, he’d been sure that as soon as he left them alone they’d be in Isabela’s room within minutes. 

That hadn’t happened, though—he’d seen Isabela heading back to her room a short time later, alone, looking confused and determined all at once—and he was pretty sure it still hadn’t. Watching them together, it would have been easy to chalk it up to Hawke’s virginal shyness, but Varric’s keen eye for stories told him there was more to it than that. 

If he could only figure out what it was, he could be rich. This had the makings of an epic romance novel, the kind bored noblemen’s wives ate up like Orlesian cheese. Granted, the Rivaini didn’t seem the type to fall madly in love with anyone—madly in bed, maybe—but that was what artistic license was for. 

Isabela smirked down at her cards, then reached into her bosom to pull out a few copper coins—slowly, and sure to brush Hawke’s arm with her own as she did it. Hawke blushed, predictably, and her eyes were drawn exactly where Isabela had intended before she realized what she was doing and shook her head.

Fenris scowled, and Varric wasn’t sure if it was because of his hand or because that was his default expression until the cards hit the table face down. Aveline tossed in a few coins of her own, her eyes locked vigilantly on Isabela and Hawke. 

Varric looked down at his own cards, keeping his smirk frozen on his face as he took in the utter shit that was in his hand. This was not going well. He looked around the table, trying to gauge the other players’ confidence in their cards; he was a master bullshitter, he could pull this off.

“I see your three copper,” he said, fingering the stack of coins in front of him, “and raise you four silver.”

Next to him, Merrill sighed. “Oh, I don’t have that much,” she said, pouting as she looked at her meager pile of coins. “I shouldn’t have given so much to those little children in the alienage, but they looked so hungry.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Varric chuckled. “You really gotta learn how to say no.” 

“But I know how to say it,” Merrill said with a small frown. “’No.’ It’s not that difficult, really; easier than in Elvish in any case.”

“You’re missing the point, Kitten,” Isabela said fondly. “But it’s all right. Just sit this one out, you’ll have more coin for the next round.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Merrill replied, placing her cards face down on the table. 

The bet moved to Anders, who was looking singularly uncomfortable about being placed next to the blood mage. For a minute it looked like he was going to match the bet out of sheer stubbornness, but then his eyes flickered bright blue for a second and he folded instead. 

Then it was up to Hawke. Her eyes found Varric’s across the table, and they narrowed in that unsettling way she had, like they were peering right through him. A small smile played at the corner of her lips, and she added silver coins one at a time—one, two, three, four…then five. Sod it all, she knew he was bluffing. 

“Well, you two have fun with that,” Isabela said, tossing her cards into the center of the table and leaning back in her chair. “Too rich for my tastes—I’ve got to be able to pay for my room, after all.” 

Aveline scoffed. “I’m sure you could find someone’s bed to be in,” she said dryly, tossing her own cards in. “Seems to be your favorite hobby.” 

“Who needs a bed?” Isabela’s eyebrow lifted, a rakish grin tugging at her lips. “In all seriousness, though, it is nice to have somewhere to _sleep_ , Big Girl. And that doesn’t happen in anyone’s bed but my own.” 

“And why’s that?” Aveline shot back. “Afraid they’ll realize what a terrible mistake they made and smother you in your sleep?” 

“Aveline,” Hawke chided, meeting her friend’s eyes. “Play nice.”

“Well, Hawke,” Varric piped up, deftly changing the subject, “you win. Again.” Last round it had been because she caught Isabela cheating, apparently not distracted enough by Isabela’s cleavage to miss one gloved hand slipping under the table to where the Rivaini no doubt had a whole deck’s worth of cards tucked into her boot. “You’ve gotta let me in on your secret one of these days.” 

Hawke had that look, then, that flash of panic quickly covered by an enigmatic smile. “You wish, Varric.” 

“Come on,” Varric urged as Hawke swept her winnings into the pile in front of her. “I’ve got to know the details so I can properly tell the tale of the infamous Hawke: Wicked Grace Champion, and Savior of Elves, Mages, Templars, Qunari, and Little Kittens Stuck in Trees.” 

“You and your stories,” Hawke chuckled, shaking her head. “Pretty soon I won’t be able to walk a block in Lowtown without being stopped by some admiring fan, asking if it’s really true that I slayed an army of demons blindfolded with one arm tied behind my back.” 

“Don’t argue it, sweet thing,” Isabela said, slipping her arm around the back of Hawke’s chair. “A fearsome reputation can be very useful.” 

“Maker only knows what your reputation has gotten you,” Aveline said.

Isabela smirked, leaning closer to Hawke as she pinned Aveline with her gaze. “Jealous?”

“Not in the slightest,” Aveline sneered, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on Hawke’s shoulder. Isabela’s fingers were trailing little circles over Hawke’s shirt where the armor left off. 

The Rivaini just shook her head, knocking back the last of her drink. The empty tumbler hit the table with a hollow thunk. “Well I don’t know about any of you, but I could use another drink,” she said, withdrawing her arm and pushing away from the table. “Anyone else want another round?”

“I’m surprised you’d get off your fat arse to go get it,” Aveline remarked.

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you of the sight, Big Girl,” Isabela said with a wink. “Besides, Norah’s got her hands full over there—” she nodded toward the corner, where the barmaid was arguing hopelessly with a drunk who refused to pay, “—and Corff hasn’t been too friendly with me since that unfortunate brawl last week.”

“A brawl you started,” Aveline pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “It took me ages to sort out who needed to be locked up and who didn’t.”

“Details.” Isabela waved her hand dismissively. She turned back to Hawke, shooting her a charming grin and a wink as she scooped some coin up into her hand. Hawke just blushed, seeming almost not to notice that the coin had been from her own pile. “I’ll be right back.”

Aveline tracked Isabela with a hard glint in her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally she stood up herself. “I’ll go with her. Make sure she doesn’t slip anything into anyone’s drink,” she added, her gaze drifting pointedly to Hawke’s blushing cheeks.

Varric had a feeling there was more to this—a feeling that was confirmed when Aveline reached the bar and grabbed Isabela’s arm. She leaned in close, no doubt to issue some kind of threat, and gestured not-so-subtly in Hawke’s direction. Ah, so she was warning Isabela off. Isabela just pulled away and laughed, glancing briefly at Hawke before cocking her head defiantly at Aveline. The arrogant smirk on her lips didn’t falter once. 

Whatever they were saying was cut short by Corff grudgingly setting a tray of mugs down on the bar. Isabela took it, sauntering back to the table without a care in the world. Aveline followed behind, glaring daggers into the Rivaini’s back. 

Isabela distributed the drinks, leaving Hawke’s for last. She stood halfway behind Hawke, leaning over her shoulder so that her breasts pushed into Hawke’s back as she set a mug down on the table. “And good old boring water for Hawke,” she sighed, sinking down into her own seat. It surely wasn’t an accident that her chair slid a little closer to Hawke, or that she leaned in a tad more than necessary when she continued. “One of these days I’ll convince you to put something more interesting in your mouth.” 

Huh. Every time Varric thought Hawke’s cheeks couldn’t get any redder, Isabela proved him wrong. “So, Hawke,” he said, taking pity on the poor girl, “any big adventures lined up before we leave on the expedition?”

“Just one,” Hawke said, exhaling shakily. The change of subject was clearly welcome. “I’ve got to visit the Blooming Rose tomorrow—follow a lead on that Orlesian’s missing wife.”

“Ooh, the Blooming Rose?” Isabela said, her eyes flashing with interest. Maybe the change of topic wasn’t quite a change after all. “Well, count me in. That’s one investigation I can definitely get behind.” She paused, contemplating. “Or in front of. Or on top. I’m flexible.”

There it went again; at this rate, Hawke’s cheeks would burn right off of her face. Varric raised his mug to his lips to hide his smirk. There was definitely a story there.

***

Since her arrival in Kirkwall, Marian had done her best to avoid the Blooming Rose. She didn’t have anything against the place, but walking into an environment where she would be literally surrounded by temptation was not the best idea she could think of. She’d finally been forced to visit a couple of weeks back, though, when she was investigating the disappearance of those templars, and it hadn’t been that bad. There was sex permeating the air, and certainly some of the sounds coming from behind closed doors had made her blush, but she hadn’t felt her control slip in the slightest.

Of course, Isabela hadn’t been with her then—she’d been off following some lead on her relic. Now, while Marian was asking around about Jethann, the elf her missing woman had apparently taken a shine to, Isabela was greeting people she knew—a surprising number, even for her—and eyeing up some of Madame Lusine’s new arrivals. Marian had been trying to tune her out ever since she brought up something called the Hunter Horn Special, but it was hard when Isabela’s voice had a way of trickling into her ears, sparking a warmth in her stomach that spread to her cheeks with alarming speed. 

Viveka, the girl who ran the books at the Rose, was being particularly difficult today. “Look, I know you’ve got some sort of hero complex or something, but our services aren’t free. If you’re not paying, you can’t go upstairs. Boss’s orders.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Besides, Jethann’s off tonight anyway.”

Marian sighed in frustration, trying not to look at Isabela hanging all over a well-muscled, arrogant-looking man nearby. Apparently they were acquainted. She blinked and shook her head, fixing her eyes back on Viveka’s. “So you’re saying he’s not here?”

“I didn’t say that…exactly.” Viveka shifted uncomfortably and looked away, but not before Marian saw the lie in her eyes. 

“Please,” Marian urged. “A woman’s life is at stake. Whatever information Jethann might have just may save her.” 

Viveka rolled her eyes, glancing around to make sure Madame Lusine wasn't nearby. “All right, fine,” she said grudgingly. “Top floor, last door on the left. If anyone asks, I didn’t tell you a thing.” 

“Thank you.” Marian smiled, turning away to collect her party. Well, to collect Isabela; Bethany was all but pressed up against her side, trying her best not to look at any of the scantily clad people milling around the room, and Aveline was planted protectively behind Marian’s back. Marian had thought Aveline would be too busy with training to accompany her on her various quests, but lately she’d been present more and more—particularly when Isabela was going to be involved. It didn’t stop Isabela from flirting—if anything, it made her do it more—but Marian was more comfortable knowing that Aveline would stop anything serious from happening.

Aveline rolled her eyes when she saw Isabela practically sitting in the lap of an entirely different man—this one a slim, haughty elf. “Come along, whore.” 

“You do know we’re in a brothel,” Isabela said with an easy smirk as she sauntered over to join them. “You might want to be more specific next time.”

“Shut up and move,” Aveline grumbled, making sure to place herself between Isabela and Marian. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than your depraved appetites.”

Isabela let out a little mock gasp. “Big Girl, nothing’s more important than sex. It’s multi-purpose: exercise, pleasure, stress relief, relaxation—” she stopped, eyeing Aveline contemplatively. “Come to think of it, maybe that’s why you’re so wound up all the time. When we’re done here, why don’t you pick one out for yourself—on me.” 

“No thank you,” Aveline replied through gritted teeth.

“Your loss,” Isabela said with a shrug. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

***

Jethann turned out to be a handsome, flirty elf whose eyes all but lit up when they fell on Marian. “Today’s my rest day, but I’ll make an exception for you,” he drawled, his interest plain in his face.

“Ooh, I like him,” Isabela remarked, dragging her gaze over him. “He reminds me of someone.”

“I can’t imagine who,” Aveline said, rolling her eyes. 

“What can I say?” Jethann said with an easy smirk. “Why work if you’re not working _hard_?”

Marian laughed; after resisting Isabela’s blatant come-ons for the past few weeks, it was refreshing to be flirted with by someone she wasn’t the least bit attracted to. “I can see why Ninette liked you,” she said, smiling mischievously. “You’re feisty.”

Jethann sighed at the mention of Ninette. “A refreshing change from the pale slug I married. I hear she finally left her worthless husband—good for her.” He frowned a little. “I just wish she’d said goodbye.” 

News traveled fast, apparently. “Did she tell you she left her husband?” Marian asked, watching his eyes carefully.

“No, I just hope that’s what she did,” Jethann admitted. “Ghyslain is nothing but a simpering lapdog who only married her for her family’s wealth,” he sneered. “Ninette’s a jewel—elegant, worldly, just the perfect level of depraved. Ghyslain doesn’t deserve her.” 

“Do you think Ninette might be in trouble?” Marian asked. “Would anyone want to hurt her?”

“I hope not,” Jethann replied, frowning a little. “Everyone loves Ninette—except maybe Ghyslain. But even he would never lift a finger to her.” 

“Ghyslain knew about you and Ninette,” Marian said. “Did he talk to you?”

Jethann scoffed. “The man is incapable of talking. He came here, yelled at me, called me a dirty knife-ear among other things, and accused me of corrupting his wife. We had him thrown out.”

Marian sighed. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“Well…hm.” Jethann pondered for a moment. “There was someone else looking for Ninette. A templar. I believe his name was Emeric. He wouldn’t sleep with me either,” he said with a pout. Then he cocked his head. “I can’t see why a templar would be interested in anyone who wasn’t a mage.”

That _was_ curious. Marian’s brow furrowed. “Any chance Ninette’s an apostate?”

Jethann hesitated just a moment too long before saying, “No, I don’t think so.” 

“Are you sure?” Marian pressed.

“Well, there was always something strange about her,” he admitted. “She never wanted me to touch her—most of the time we’d sit on opposite sides of the room and touch ourselves; she really liked that,” he said with an indulgent grin. “Sometimes she’d tie me up and pleasure me, but that’s all. It’s like she was afraid of losing control or something. Not that I minded—most of my clients are only interested in their own pleasure.” He shrugged. “Anyway, if Ninette was a mage, I think Emeric would have said so.”

A chill raced down Marian’s spine. Maybe Ninette wasn’t a mage, but it sounded like she may have been something else—something a templar wouldn’t be so eager to discuss with a whore in a brothel. “Perhaps Emeric knows something we don’t,” she said slowly, glancing at her sister. Bethany nodded slightly in understanding. 

“He said he’d continue his investigation in Darktown,” Jethann offered. “You could see if he’s still there. And if you find Ninette, tell her to drop by and see me sometime.”

“Thank you,” Marian said absently. “We’ll look there.” 

She exited the room in a daze, barely noticing when Isabela sped on ahead to make her goodbyes. Bethany pulled her aside, glancing back and forth down the hallway to make sure no one could overhear. Aveline followed. 

“You think she’s a confessor,” Bethany said under her breath.

Marian nodded. “Or was,” she said softly. “Ghyslain didn’t act like a confessed man.”

Bethany nodded, taking in a shaky breath. “But a man who was just freed from confession…”

“Wait,” Aveline said, holding up a hand to stop them. “Leandra said your power was irreversible.”

“It is,” Marian replied, “For the most part. The only escape from confession is death—either your own, or—”

“Or that of your confessor,” Aveline finished, understanding. 

“Ghyslain said he woke up one day consumed by bitterness,” Marian reminded them. “He was angry with her for visiting the Rose, for filling her needs elsewhere, because he wanted to be the one to fill those needs.”

“And he said that it hadn’t always been that way,” Bethany added. “That they used to be in love, that their wedding night had been the happiest day of his life.” 

“That could be any jilted husband,” Aveline said skeptically. “Sometimes people just grow apart.”

“Maybe,” Marian admitted. “It was just something about the way he talked…he seemed confused, unhinged. Like his entire world had shifted very suddenly.”

“If you’re right, that means she’s dead,” Aveline pointed out. 

“Let’s hope I’m wrong,” Marian sighed, heading off down the corridor. To Darktown it was.

***

After talking with Ser Emeric, Marian was more convinced than ever. He’d been cagey about why he believed Ninette’s disappearance was connected to that of the other three woman, saying only that “they had certain things in common”. He’d handed the investigation over to her, even given her his findings, but they were similarly vague. There was mention of white lilies, and the indirect assertion that perhaps the women had been hunted, picked out for whatever peculiarity they all shared. Marian was hard-pressed to think of what could connect a foreign noblewoman, a Circle mage, and two other women from vastly different walks of life—unless, perhaps, they all shared a similar power.

Emeric’s findings had led them to a foundry in Lowtown. Something about the place felt off, dark. Marian found herself not wanting to go inside, for fear of what they were about to find. Whatever answer they were going to get, it would be in this building.

As they entered, a flash of movement up on the balcony caught her eye. She saw the swish of robes as someone fled into a back room, and then suddenly they were set upon by a swarm of shades and minor demons. With Bethany’s magic, Aveline’s sword, and her and Isabela slicing through them all with their daggers, they made relatively easy work of them, but the implications were chilling.

“Those things were summoned with dark magic,” Bethany said, wiping sweat from her brow. 

“Be on your guard,” Marian warned the others, taking the lead up the stairs. “Whoever it is, they’re probably still here.

Further investigation turned up no one, however; the mysterious mage seemed to have disappeared. Marian was starting to believe they wouldn’t find anything, until her eyes fell on a gruesome sight as they were walking back into the main room of the foundry.

Bones. A bloody pile of human bones, and among them a severed hand. Marian pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing back the urge to vomit. 

“Her hand,” Bethany murmured, pale as a sheet. “Why would he cut off her hand?”

“You know why,” Marian said, glancing knowingly between Aveline and Bethany. She was all too aware of the inquisitive look Isabela was directing at her. It was the perfect opportunity to explain; by now she trusted that Isabela wouldn’t sell out their secret—at least unless the payoff was really, really good—but if Isabela knew, everything would stop. Her flirty behavior, her smoldering glances…she might not even want to get anywhere near Marian. The thought should have filled her with relief, spurred her to come clean once and for all, but instead it filled her with a hollow ache. “There’s a ring,” she said instead, focusing on their morbid discovery. “We should get it back to Ghyslain; it might have belonged to Ninette. And Ser Emeric will want to hear of this.”

***

Ser Emeric was devastated by the news. It almost seemed as though he’d been in love with the Circle mage who’d been taken, but if Mharen had been a confessor, she certainly hadn’t used her power on him.

Ghyslain de Carrac was decidedly less heartbroken. He’d gotten a strange look on his face when Marian handed him back his wedding ring, sort of wistful and bitter all at the same time.

“I should have known,” he said thickly, staring intently down at the gold band. “I felt…different.” He shook his head, closing the ring in his fist. “As long as her family doesn’t think I did it,” he said, gruff and defiant.

“Trust me,” Marian said uneasily. “I’m positive they don’t think that.” 

As she walked away from the not-quite-bereaved man, Marian felt a cold, sick gnawing in the pit of her stomach. The thought was chilling; a killer who not only knew about confessors, but hunted them—and he was loose in Kirkwall.


	11. Chapter 11

Isabela never thought she'd be so glad to see the dirty slums of Lowtown. Turns out, all it took was a few long, frustrating weeks locked up in an abandoned thaig in the Deep Roads. She'd known it wouldn't be pleasant—she wasn't good with small spaces, especially ones so far from the sea—but she hadn't realized quite how much she'd miss the sunlight. 

The forced celibacy hadn't helped. She'd hoped that this expedition would provide endless opportunities to get Hawke alone, and therefore more than enough time to wear down her resistance. What she hadn't counted on was Aveline flaming Vallen. The soon-to-be Guard Captain had insisted on putting her training on hold to join the expedition—news she'd happily shared with Hawke while glaring pointedly at Isabela herself. 

The woman was bloody infuriating. All Isabela wanted was a good time—with how Aveline looked at her, you'd swear she had plans to chain Hawke up in her room at the Hanged Man and keep her as a sodding sex slave. Although, now that she thought of that…

No—too much commitment. Pets required things like regular feeding and bathing, and those things were only fun when sex was involved. She'd keep the chains in mind, though.

Maker's balls, you could tell she'd been too long without a tumble when she was seriously contemplating the pros and cons of keeping a sex slave. Really, as if she'd ever devote that much time and energy to one sex partner. Hardly worth the effort when she could easily have a different lover every night of the week—every night of the month, even. 

It hadn't been all bad. Her pockets were full of coin—all right, well, she didn't have pockets, but her boots, cleavage and other various hiding places on her person—enough to buy a brand new ship and have her pick of crew. If only she didn't know that Castillon would track her down and sink that one, as well—she still wasn't convinced he hadn't somehow arranged that whole business with the Qunari, he had enough coin and connections for it—she'd set sail within the week.

As it was, the coin would go a long way toward tracking down that sodding relic and getting Castillon off her back once and for all. It was almost worth all the bullshit they'd had to deal with down in the Deep Roads. 

If darkspawn, shades, and bloody dragons weren't enough, Varric's filthy backstabber of a brother had locked them up in that damned thaig with a horde of rock wraiths—one of which was almost certainly possessed by a demon, to make things that much more interesting. It had actually tried to bargain with Hawke, which made Isabela want to laugh even now—clearly it'd had no idea who it was dealing with. 

Then there'd been that mother of all rock wraiths, the gigantic one that had knocked both Isabela and Varric out of commission—and worse, forced Isabela to acknowledge that maybe it was a good thing Lady Manhands had come along. She still wasn't sure what was more bruised—her arse or her pride. 

They were home now, though—at least, as close to it as she had at the moment. The fetid odor of chokedamp mixed with foundry smoke was as welcome as the hint of sea breeze she caught beneath it. Even better, Aveline had already parted ways with them and headed up to the barracks in Hightown to catch up on whatever boring guard happenings she'd missed. 

Varric had been all too eager to return to his suite, which left Isabela standing alone with Hawke at the entrance to the Hanged Man. It was the perfect opportunity to step up her game and finally get Hawke into her bed, except for one thing.

"I _really_ need a bath," Isabela said, scrunching her nose at the thought that she couldn't actually remember when her last one had been. Sodding Deep Roads. "I think I've forgotten what it feels like to be clean." 

"Maker, a bath," Marian groaned, in a way that was far too appealing. "That sounds fantastic."

"You could always join me," Isabela offered with a waggle of her eyebrow. "It'd be a tight fit, though." 

As expected, Hawke blushed. It was funny, really; as predictable as it was, it never stopped being absolutely precious. 

"Somehow I don't think we'd actually get clean that way," Hawke mumbled, nervously rubbing at the back of her neck.

Isabela raised an eyebrow, impressed; Hawke usually didn't have the balls to flirt back. "Come by later," she said, stepping the tiniest bit closer. "We can play cards and you can watch me drink." She lowered her voice, reaching out to drag her fingertips over Hawke's wrist. "Or I can always show you around my room."

The blush intensified as Hawke snatched her hand back, holding it to herself as if burned. "We'll see," Hawke said vaguely, backing up to put a more comfortable distance between them.

"Later, then," Isabela said, raking her eyes over Hawke's dirty, exhausted frame. Even with over a month's worth of Deep Roads filth caked onto her skin, the woman was criminally attractive. Hawke nodded and turned, heading for her uncle's house no doubt; Isabela indulged herself and enjoyed the view for a few moments before pushing open the door to the Hanged Man.

***

Marian shook her head, trying to wipe the giddy smile from her face as she trudged toward Gamlen's hovel. Despite the knowledge that nothing could ever come of it, she had to admit it felt good, knowing that Isabela wanted her enough to be so persistent. Still, she was grateful Aveline had insisted on coming along on the expedition. Otherwise, she wasn't sure Isabela would have made it out with her free will intact—and by now Marian knew Isabela enough to know that the loss of free will would be a fate worse than death.

There were other reasons to smile, though; the treasure they'd found in the thaig was unbelievable. She had more than enough to petition the viscount for her family's estate, which meant that very soon, her family would have a home—a real one, not some cramped shack in Lowtown. They'd have space, and luxury, and—most importantly—protection. 

She couldn't wait to see the look on Mother and Bethany's faces when she told them the good news. For that matter, she couldn't wait to see Gamlen's reaction. The man felt so flaming superior to them; it would be immensely satisfying to move to Hightown and leave him to rot in his hole. 

Marian sighed happily as she pushed open the door to said hole. Her smile fell from her face immediately, though, when she saw the scene that awaited her.

"What's going on?" Marian demanded, her eyes darting back and forth between her sister and the templar standing before her.

Bethany gave her a pleading look, her eyes shining with tears. "Please don't do anything," she begged. 

"Mistress Bethany is being taken to the Circle of Magi in the Gallows," the templar informed her briskly. 

Marian recognized him—the Knight-Captain, if she remembered correctly; Knight-Captain Cullen. She'd helped him when his recruits were being kidnapped and turned into abominations; she thought he was a decent man, for a templar. Obviously she was wrong.

"No," Marian said, her voice low and harsh. Rage began to churn in her stomach. "No, you can't take her." 

"Marian—" Bethany started, holding her hands out to appease her sister.

"Sweetheart, don't—" Mother tried, but Marian cut her off.

"Mother, we can't let them take her!" she cried, hands clenching into fists at her sides to try to control her anger. She was starting to understand how Bethany had felt when Carver died. "They'll _kill_ her!" 

"We're not monsters," Cullen interjected calmly. "Your sister is only going to be taken to the Circle. She'll be safe there, and the rest of Kirkwall will be safe from her power. She'll be among others of her kind." 

" _We_ are her kind," Marian said through clenched teeth. She turned to Bethany. "Beth, the Gallows is horrible. You can't go there."

Bethany offered a feeble smile. "I have to. That's where the _apostates_ go, isn't it?" she raised both eyebrows, pointedly emphasizing the word. 

Marian finally realized what Bethany was trying to convey to her. Cullen only knew about her magic—he still had no clue they were confessors. She should have known right away, really; they'd be taking them all in otherwise, or else killing them on the spot. 

"Consider yourselves fortunate," Cullen said with a frown. "The viscount has requested we spare your family the punishment for harboring a dangerous mage."

"Fortunate," Marian scoffed quietly. She met Cullen's gaze head-on. "Can I at least say goodbye?"

Cullen nodded. "Of course. But don't even think of trying anything." His hand fell on the pommel of his sword.

Marian ignored his threat, focusing on the feel of her sister in her arms. It was hard to believe this could be their last hug, that they might never see each other again. The Circle wasn't known for its visitation privileges in the best of places, and Kirkwall seemed to take a particular interest in isolating its mages. 

"Be careful," Marian murmured in Bethany's ear, holding her tight.

Bethany clung to Marian's shoulders, tears dripping onto her sister's neck. "You too," she managed weakly. 

Taking a step back, Marian watched as Bethany and Mother shared a warm hug. They were finally becoming a family again, and it was being torn apart once more. Marian's throat thickened, and her eyes swelled with moisture. She barely noticed dropping to her knees, or her mother's arms snaking around her shoulders, pulling her close as the tears began to fall.

Through bleary vision, Marian watched as Knight-Captain Cullen escorted her baby sister out of the house—and out of her life.


End file.
